


Patriotic

by EliseEtcetera



Series: The Price We Pay [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, And dark, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Coping Skills, Blood, Canon Era, Cutting, Decapitation, Depersonalization, Derealization, Forced Orgasm, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, I promise, Isolation, Love Confessions, M/M, Non-Consensual BDSM, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Breath Play, Non-Consensual Knife Play, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Self Harm, Stalking, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Rape/Non-con, Victim Blaming, Vomiting, appropriate tag is appropriate, but don't worry, but hey this is france what do you expect, enjolras is a charming young man capable of being terrible, i could've sworn that i'd tagged that oops, not for quite a while though, oooh symbolism, this is super sad you guys, woobie!R is so fun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 02:48:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EliseEtcetera/pseuds/EliseEtcetera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new member joins Les Amis, and he seems to be the perfect revolutionary; even Enjolras is impressed with him. Grantaire, however, is cautious and is later forced to make an ultimate sacrifice for the sake of the Revolution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Absolutely Charming

**Author's Note:**

> OK, so this is a work in progress. I have the basic plot planned out and all that, I just need to actually write it and fill in the holes. This is going to be a pretty dark fic, just to warn you. I promise, though, that no matter how dark it gets, there will be a happy ending. I love Grantaire too much to deny him that <3
> 
> Also, this is my first multi-chaptered Les Mis fic wheeeee
> 
> Original thread: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/9761.html?thread=1348129#t1348129

Grantaire didn’t like him from the moment he first saw him.

 His name was de Malain, but like Courfeyrac, he had dropped the participle in defiance of his bourgeoisie upbringing. Courfeyrac had practically dragged him into the Musain one Wednesday evening, just before the meeting was to begin, blathering on and on to Enjolras.

 “Oh, he’s absolutely charming, Enjolras, you’ll adore him!”

 Enjolras had glanced at Courfeyrac skeptically, but none-the-less, reached a hand out to the newcomer. “Welcome, Malain.”

 Grantaire had watched the exchange from his usual seat, instinct telling him to be wary. Malain was young, no older than Jehan, attractive, with wavy black hair stopping at his shoulders and vibrant green eyes, full lips and cheekbones rivaling Enjolras’; and very well dressed, obviously a man from wealth. Just by looking at him, though, Grantaire knew he was not a man to be trusted; there was something evil in his eyes.

 Grantaire gripped the bottle in front of him when Malain took a seat and the meeting began. He stared at the young man, and when Malain looked back at him, Grantaire tried his hardest to suppress the chill that wriggled down his spine.

 The devil had joined them.

 ---

The first time happened a week after Malain’s arrival.

 He had come to every meeting, the one on Friday, and on Monday, and on Wednesday, and always punctual. He had a wide array of interests, something in common with each member of their group. He enjoyed poetry, leading to many eloquent conversations with Jehan; he understood science and medicine, providing for endless discussions with Joly and Combeferre; he was good with his hands, so he and Feuilly created small masterpieces together; he was an experienced lover, so Courfeyrac and Bahorel had a new friend with which to trade stories of debauchery. He read Rousseau and Voltaire, studied Saint-Just and Robespierre almost religiously, so naturally, Enjolras was –as much as marble could be- impressed. Malain even offered his apartment to Bossuet as lodgings, should the unlucky man ever need it.

 Grantaire, however, was still cautious. Malain had a disturbing habit of staring at the cynic during the meetings, though they never spoke, Grantaire had no interest in conversing with him and if it weren’t for the uncomfortable glares, it would seem Malain also had no interest.

 However, on this evening, Malain had not once looked in Grantaire’s direction.

 ‘Quite the enigma,’ Grantaire thought as the meeting drew to a close. It was midweek, so Courfeyrac and Bahorel would be going to the Corinth for drinks.

 “Well, Malain,” Bahorel said as he pulled his coat over his shoulders. “Will you be joining us this evening?”

 Malain smiled and shook his head. “I’m afraid not, friends. I’ve already made plans.”

 “Oh, shame,” Courfeyrac called from where he was standing near the exit. “Can’t you bless us with your company just for one drink?”

 Malain laughed and stood, walking towards the door, Bahorel following him. “Sadly no, I believe I’m running late as it is.”

 The three men took their leave, their laughs and yells becoming dimmer and dimmer. Grantaire stood, draining the last sips of wine from the bottle in his hands. Enjolras and Combeferre stood hunched over a collection of papers and maps. Jehan sat with Joly and Bossuet, the three chattering excitedly. Grantaire turned and began walking to the door, sensing it was his time to leave.

 “Good night, R!”

 Grantaire stopped in his tracks and turned to face the voice. Jehan smiled widely at him, and Grantaire found himself returning the smile.

 “Good night, little poet.”

 He exited and the night air hit him like cold water. He inhaled deeply, his lungs enjoying the smell of the evening. He started walking in the direction of his apartment, not noticing the shadow following him.

 It wasn’t until he was climbing up the stairs to his room that he realized he wasn’t alone. By then, it was too late.

 His hand had only just started to open the door when Malain’s arm wrapped around his throat, effectively closing his airway and stopping him from crying out. Malain forcefully pushed them into Grantaire’s apartment, knocking over easels and books. Within moments, they were on Grantaire’s bed. Grantaire raised his arms in an attempt to block Malain, but the younger man was far stronger than he looked. His fist connected with Grantaire’s jaw, stunning the drunken man. Taking advantage of this, Malain grabbed Grantaire’s wrists, pinioned them at the small of his back and pushed him onto his stomach.

 “Please, stop,” Grantaire gasped, fighting the dull ache in his jaw as pain shot down his arms. “Please, please, stop!”

 Malain huffed out a laugh in response and with his free hand, ripped Grantaire’s trousers and started pulling them down.

 Grantaire bit his lip to stifle the sob coming up his throat. “No, please, don’t do this,” He begged. “Please, no…”

 There was something soft being tied around his wrists, locking them in place at his back and the sound of trousers being opened.

 “No,” Grantaire choked out, tears falling steadily from his eyes. “No, no, no, please, stop, no…”

 Hands roughly pulled his cheeks apart and Grantaire gagged when he felt Malain spit on his hole and roughly push two fingers into him. A minute later, the fingers were removed and the head of Malain’s cock pressed against his hole. Grantaire whimpered and sobbed, still begging for Malain to stop. A hand threaded through Grantaire’s disheveled curls and buried his face into the mattress, preventing his neighbors from hearing the agonized scream that followed.

 It seemed to last for hours, perhaps it did.  The pain never lessened, not when his left shoulder popped out of its socket, not when he felt blood running down the inside of his thighs, not when Malain pulled Grantaire’s head so far back his neck made a sick cracking sound as he licked away the tears on Grantaire’s face. Not when he pulled out, cut the fabric restraining the drunken man’s wrists and grabbed Grantaire’s shirt collar to turn him onto his back. Not when Malain leaned forward to suck a huge bruise on Grantaire’s neck and most certainly not when Malain stood, readjusted his clothing, threw a handful of coins at Grantaire’s trembling body and _laughed_.

 ---

When Grantaire finally found the strength to move, he regretted it immediately. Pain flooded every nerve in his body and it took all of what little strength he had left to not scream. Slowly, shakily, he pulled himself upright, whimpering the entire time. He forced his eyes to stay up and not look down at the bed, knowing he wasn’t ready to deal with that yet. He turned his head to look at his left shoulder. Even through his shirt, he could see the bone grotesquely out of place under his skin. He blinked back tears at the pain and realization that he would have to get help for his injuries.

 He didn’t want any of his friends to know what had happened, but he had no money for a doctor. Joly or Combeferre were his only options. Grantaire bit his lip and sighed. He’d figure that out later.

 Eventually, he gathered the courage to look down.

 There was less blood than he thought there would be, but it was still shocking, bright crimson against dingy white. His trousers, still around his knees, were torn and ruined and stained with blood and other things Grantaire didn’t want to think about.

 He pressed his right hand to his mouth and breathed deeply through his nose, fighting the tears and nausea and _pain_ , why was he still in so much pain?

 It took an embarrassingly long amount of time to get his clothing off. His left arm was basically useless, all feeling in the limb was gone and he couldn’t move it at all. Slowly, carefully, he unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt and laid them on the bed next to him and watched as blood seeped into the fabric. He was still bleeding, he realized with a stifled sob. Trembling, Grantaire tugged his trousers off his legs and pushed them, along with his shirt and waistcoat, under his thighs in a futile attempt to save his bedding.

 He swallowed hard, nausea creeping up his throat. He quickly reached for the chamber pot next to his bed, and promptly emptied his stomach. When he finished, he managed to lie down in a position that didn’t aggravate his injured shoulder.

 He lay there, bleeding, shaking, crying, waiting for sleep, preferably death.

 Morning came instead.


	2. Don't Spill Your Guts (It's A Mess No One Wants To Clean Up)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.

Grantaire stood in front of Combeferre’s door, trying to gather up the courage to knock.

 It had taken him nearly two hours to clean himself up and get dressed that morning. The first thing he did when he’d finally made it to his feet was ball up his stained, torn clothing and bury it in the small space under the floorboards in the corner of his room. There was nothing he could do about the stain on his bed, he realized sadly, and instead covered the spot with a blanket.

  _Out of sight, out of mind._

 His wrists were red, chafed from his struggling against the fabric that had bound them, and there were light bruises covering them. He glanced at the small mirror he kept next to his bed to survey the damage on his face and neck.

 The bruise on his jaw was barely noticeable at certain angles, and was easy enough to pass off as a result of a brawl, but the discoloration on his neck was a different story. The contusion was gruesome, dark purple in the center, fading into a sickly blue, and an angry red around the edges. It was distinct; anyone seeing it would know exactly what it was and would ask questions, questions Grantaire did not want to answer.

 He sighed and weakly tossed the mirror onto his bed. He was disgusting, pathetic, weak for letting this happen. He bit his lip, tears springing to his eyes as he searched the room for something, anything---

 His gaze landed on a bottle, the only one standing, in the corner of his room near the bed. The other bottles had fallen the night before, tipped over during the struggle, and wine had soaked into the floorboards. There was only one left.

  _Oh God, yes._

 Grantaire reached for it, a slight smile curling his lips when he realized it hadn’t been opened yet, and quickly tipped it back, sweet, blood red wine filling his mouth and warming him as he swallowed. He pulled the bottle from his lips, smiling as the familiar, comforting feeling of alcohol spread throughout him.

 The feeling was short-lived.

 Nausea overtook Grantaire moments later, and he almost didn’t reach the chamber pot in time. He heaved and retched, the wine and stomach acid burning his throat painfully. When he finished, he pulled back, sighing, wiping tears from his eyes, and set the bottle back down carefully in its place.

  _How proud Enjolras would be of me._

 Grantaire sighed again and looked down at his injured shoulder. The joint was swollen, still out of place. It was time to venture out.

 Washing and dressing had been difficult; he couldn’t use his dominant limb, his left arm was still numb. But he managed to wash away the dried mess of blood and semen from his legs and backside. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t stop the tears from escaping as he watched the wet washrag gradually get redder and redder. The only comfort he’d found was that he’d stopped bleeding.

 Dressing had been the most difficult part of the morning, at least physically speaking. He knew without even trying that he couldn’t stand and put on his trousers, and sitting was far too painful. Instead, he’d leaned his back against the wall, biting his lip as pain shot down his left arm, and carefully slid his legs into his trousers.

 Putting on his shirt and waistcoat had been the hardest part, but he’d managed, and although it took ten minutes, he successfully buttoned his shirt and waistcoat. A cravat was most definitely out of the question, so as Grantaire buttoned his shirt up as far as it would go, he hoped that it would hide the large bruise on his neck.

 Finally, he was presentable.

 He’d hobbled down the stairs, his good arm clinging to the wall for support and started off in the direction of Combeferre’s apartment.

 Grantaire had decided to go to Combeferre and not Joly for one reason and one reason only. Combeferre knew when to stop asking questions. Joly had the sometimes annoying, sometimes endearing habit of relentlessness, and when someone told him less than the truth, he would demand and pester and do whatever it took to get a straight answer.

 Combeferre, on the other hand, was not a demanding person, and understood that there were reasons why one might be less than truthful. He might give you a withering look, or sigh deeply, but he wouldn’t demand an answer or the real story. He did what needed to be done and looked the other way if you asked nicely.

 As far as Grantaire was concerned, nothing happened the previous night, other than a brief brawl in which his shoulder was pinned, resulting in it coming out of its socket. This was his story and he was sticking to it.

 So why was it so hard to knock on Combeferre’s door?

 Grantaire closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. He didn’t want to lie to Combeferre; they weren’t close friends, but Combeferre had helped him many times before. It felt wrong to lie to Combeferre, the guide of their group, filled with wisdom and intelligence and passion and kindness, but Grantaire couldn’t tell him the truth. He couldn’t; it’d be humiliating and Combeferre would be disgusted with him and Grantaire would lose the only people that mattered to him.

 Grantaire fought back tears and sighed, raising his hand to knock on the door in front of him.

 “Just a moment!” Combeferre’s voice called from inside.

 Ever true to his word, the door opened just a few seconds later and Combeferre stood in the doorway, his hair slightly disheveled, putting on his glasses.

 “Grantaire, what brings you here?” He asked, slightly surprised to see the dark haired man at his apartment.

 Grantaire took in Combeferre’s appearance and bit his lip nervously. “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

 Combeferre smiled and shook his head. “No, no, just washing up, that’s all. Is everything alright?”

 Grantaire sighed and shifted his weight from foot to foot. “No, I need your help. May I come in?”

 Combeferre nodded and opened the door wider. “Of course.”

 Grantaire entered the small room and Combeferre asked, “What do you need?”

 Grantaire swallowed nervously. _Don’t fuck this up Grantaire._  “It’s my shoulder,” he said, gesturing to his injury. “I, uh, I got into a bit of a scuffle last night and I can’t move my arm, or feel it.”

 Combeferre nodded. “Sounds like a dislocation to me. We’ll have to remove your waistcoat and shirt.”

  _Oh fuck, the bruises._ Grantaire bit his lip and nodded. “Right.”  He started unbuttoning his waistcoat as Combeferre came closer. Grantaire couldn’t stop himself from flinching as the other man’s hands helped him take off his clothes.

 "Are you alright?” Combeferre asked, his brow furrowed in concern.

 “Yes,” Grantaire said, forcing a smile. _Lielielie._ “It just hurts quite a bit.”

 Combeferre nodded, though not convinced, and continued unbuttoning Grantaire’s shirt.

  _Any moment now._

 He heard Combeferre gasp quietly as his wrists and neck became visible, but the other man didn’t say a word. Instead, he cleared his throat and carefully examined Grantaire’s shoulder.

 “It looks like a simple anterior dislocation,” Combeferre said after a minute or so. He grabbed the small wooden stool next to his window and set it next to Grantaire. “Sit here, and I’ll set it back in place.”

 Grantaire looked at the hard seat and tried not to cringe. _Oh God, that’s going to hurt._ “I’d rather stand, if that’s alright.”

 Combeferre’s brow furrowed. “Grantaire, I’m using the Hippocrates method. You have to be seated in order for me to do it properly.”

 Grantaire bit his lip again. _I should just run for it, get out now. But I can’t function with my arm like this. I can’t do anything._ He sighed, accepted his fate and slowly, carefully, lowered himself onto the stool.

 He squeezed his eyes shut as pain shot through his backside, up his spine, and nausea churned his stomach, He swallowed hard and sucked in a deep breath.

 “Are you ready?” Combeferre asked, gently holding his arm again.

 Grantaire simply nodded, not trusting his mouth to only spill words.

 It took a few minutes, considering Combeferre had never relocated a shoulder before, but when the joint finally popped back into place, Grantaire released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding as relief flooded his upper half. He carefully moved his arm, waiting for feeling to fully return to the limb.

 “You’ll have to be careful for a few weeks; don’t use it any more than you have to.”

 Grantaire nodded and, avoiding Combeferre’s eyes, picked up his shirt and waistcoat before putting them back on. “Well, I’ll, uh, I’ll just be on my way. Thank you, Combeferre.”

  _Get out now, before he starts asking questions._

 Combeferre gently grabbed Grantaire’s arm, stopping the injured man from exiting. “Wait, Grantaire,” he said, his voice concerned and soft.

 Grantaire flinched and bit his lip, keeping his eyes focused on the floor.  _Keep your mouth shut, R, don’t you dare tell him, don’t you dare fucking tell him._  

“Grantaire, what happened last night?” Combeferre asked, so quietly and so gently Grantaire wanted to cry.

 He shook his head and kept his eyes down. “Nothing happened, Combeferre, just a scuffle in an alley.”

 “It’s an insult to both of us if you think I’ll believe that.”

 “Please, Combeferre,” Grantaire whispered, bringing his teary eyes up to meet Combeferre’s worried ones. “Please, just leave it be.”

 Combeferre stared at the dark haired man for a few moments, his mouth twisted in a grimace as he saw his friend, desperately needing help and violently pushing him away. “Alright,” he acquiesced, letting go of Grantaire’s arm. “Alright.”

 Grantaire took a step away, towards the door and cleared his throat. “Thank you, Combeferre,” he repeated, his eyes dropping to the floor again.

 He opened the door and left Combeferre with a knot in his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from The Dressing Room by Breathe Carolina.
> 
> OK, so I am kinda overwhelmed at the response to this?????? Nice to know I'm not the only person that likes fucked up fic.  
> You are all so sweet <3   
> That being said, It'll be probs about, a week (maaayyybe longer) until I update this again, seeing as I'm going out of town. Hence, why you lovelies got two chapters so close together. =) But, I will be back, and breaking your hearts, as soon as possible =D
> 
> IN OTHER NEWS OH MY GOD WENDY DAVIS AND CO. I AM RAGING.


	3. I'm A Walking Travesty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me so much trouble for some reason.
> 
> Also, I have no idea how clothing shops worked in 19th century France, but I tried =)

Grantaire went straight back to his apartment after leaving Combeferre. The city was too loud, too busy, too unsafe for him to be out.

 Then again, his apartment wasn’t the safest place, either.

 Grantaire sighed as he shut the door behind him, pressing his back against the hard wood. He closed his eyes, trying to drown out the voices screaming that this was his fault.

  _You’re weak._

_Why didn’t you fight harder?_

_If you hadn’t had so much to drink, this wouldn’t have happened._

_You deserved this._

_You whore. He threw money at you. Whore._

Grantaire’s eyes opened, searching frantically for the coins Malain had tossed at him. They lay on the floor, next to his mattress, the sunlight glinting off of them.

He scrambled to the floor, collecting the coins as fast as he could with shaky hands, and pulled up the floorboards where he’d hidden his torn and stained clothes to drop the money in with them. He stared down into the hole, at his shame and weakness and filthiness sitting before him. He bit his lip, his breathing becoming heavier as he tried to keep himself from crying, but failed miserably. He dropped to his hands and knees on the floor, sobs wracking his trembling and pained body.

  _Pathetic. You don’t deserve to cry._

_You deserved this, you worthless piece of shit._

_Drink yourself to death._

Grantaire threaded his fingers through his hair and pulled roughly on the curly locks as a tortured scream crawled its way up his throat.

 "No, no, no, no, no, no, no…”

 He fell onto his side, a dull pain shooting down his arm as he landed on his weak shoulder. He choked and gasped through his sobs, trying to suck in enough air. The voices in his head kept screaming at him.

  _Whorewhorewhore, you are disgusting._

_Pathetic dirt._

_What would Enjolras think? Jehan? Bossuet and Joly?_

_Your friends will hate you for tainting them with your filth._

"Oh god,” he gasped, his body screaming in pain with every violent sob. “Oh, God, no. no. no, please…can’t do this, I can’t do this…”

 He cried like this for what seemed like hours, screaming and sobbing, tears and spit and snot pooling on the floor under his head.

When he found the strength to move again, Grantaire untangled one hand from his hair and slowly pushed the floorboards back into place. The stench of dried fluids was wafting up from the small hole and making Grantaire even more nauseous than he already was. He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed hard as another sob forced its way up his throat.

 He couldn’t stay here; it was disgusting and filthy and _cursed_ here. He briefly considered going back to Combeferre’s place, or one of his other friends’ apartments. _No_ , he thought, shaking his head. _I can’t go to one of them; they’ll ask questions that I can’t answer._

A frustrated, helpless whine escaped from Grantaire’s throat, echoing in the quiet room as he buried his face in his hands. He was trapped.

The bottle of wine from earlier flashed in his mind and shakily, he crawled to the corner when it stood. A trembling hand reached out, grasped the neck, and slowly brought the glass to his lips. He swallowed carefully, not wanting a repeat of the morning.

 He choked a little when his breath hitched unexpectedly, but the liquid stayed down. Grantaire smiled weakly and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes and trying to ignore the shaking of his hands.

 Soon, the bottle was finished and Grantaire was left wanting, _needing_ more. He grabbed the other bottles, the ones that had tipped over the night before, and quickly drained them of the few sips remaining.

 He sighed shakily and set the last empty bottle down. He _needed_ more, he _needed_ it.

 “I can’t do this,” he gasped out to the empty room. “Fuck, I can’t—“ he broke off into a weak sob.

 Maybe he could go out, buy a few bottles, just enough to keep him comfortably drunk until tomorrow night’s meeting. His favorite wine shop was only a five minute walk away from his apartment.

  _But so was the Musain._

 Grantaire sobbed and tangled his hands in his hair again. He was left in a room that smelled of shame and sex and blood and vomit and he couldn’t escape it, not even in his head.

 So he waited.

 ---

The evening found Grantaire in the same place, now curled up on his side. He’d stopped crying hours ago, but his body still trembled and ached, and he couldn’t find the strength to crawl to his bed. Not that he even wanted to sleep there; it was disgusting and filthy. No, the floor was much better.

Grantaire sighed and rubbed his sore eyes. He wanted to see his friends, to be comforted, held, even, distracted. He wanted to paint with Feuilly, laugh with Courfeyrac and Bahorel, listen to Jehan hum quietly to himself as he wrote another poem for one of them.

 He wanted things to be normal again.

 There was another meeting at the Musain the next evening. _Maybe he won’t be there,_ Grantaire thought, hope filling his chest and warming him like alcohol. _Maybe he got what he wanted and he’ll never come back._

Grantaire bit his lip and closed his eyes. He’d sleep here, back pressed against the wall, and in the morning, he’d walk down to the wine shop, buy a few bottles, then go home and drink until that evening. He’d go to the Musain and chat and drink and laugh with his friends and annoy Enjolras and pretend that he was fine, that he didn’t love Enjolras, that he wasn’t raped, that there was not enough alcohol in the world to make him feel better about himself, nor people.

 And Malain wouldn’t be there, staring at him or not staring at him, talking to _his_ friends, friends that he _fought_  to have and keep, the only friends he’d ever had.

 No, Malain wouldn’t be there, and Grantaire would be safe with his friends.

 His plan was perfect, but there was one thing Grantaire couldn’t control.

 Malain.

 ---

 It almost worked out how he wanted it.

 Grantaire managed to sleep for a few hours; he woke up gasping from a nightmare he couldn’t remember. He stripped off his wrinkled clothes from the day before and cringed when he saw spots of dried blood in his underclothes and trousers.

 “Fuck,” he breathed, turning to pull up the floorboards once again, and shoved the fabric down.

 He quickly washed himself and dressed again. It was easier now that his arm was relocated. His shoulder still hurt slightly, but it was barely noticeable compared to the ache still in his backside.

 Grantaire’s hand rested on the door, trying to work up the courage to open it and venture out. He bit his lip and closed his eyes. _Come on, R, it’s not that difficult._

He exhaled slowly and pulled the door open.

 ---

 The walk to the wine shop was uneventful; people were going about their own business, and didn’t have the time to pay any attention to a man walking with a strange limp.

 He’d entered the shop, bought a few bottles and exited in a matter of minutes. No questions were asked, no wary glances.

  _Perfect._

Bottles in arm, Grantaire started walking back as quickly as he could to the isolation of his apartment. He kept his eyes down, preventing himself from looking open to conversation.

  _Almost home, keep walking, don’t stop, don’t look up, keep walking._

A cart cut his path off, forcing him to stop and turn his gaze up. _Shit._

 His eyes landed on a clothing shop, ‘open’ sign hanging in the window. He sighed, the growing collection of ruined clothes in his floor running through his mind.

 Grantaire bit his lip and pushed open the shop’s door. He forced a smile at the middle-aged woman standing behind the counter before shuffling over to the small shelves along the wall.

 J _ust get what you need and leave, no conversations. If you talk, you’ll end up telling everything._

He grabbed two pairs of underclothes and trousers with his free hand and limped over to the woman waiting for him.

 Just these,” he rasped, his voice rough from crying and screaming.

 The woman’s eyes narrowed as she stared at Grantaire, the bottles in his arms and the clothes he was buying. “We don’t usually sell to those of ill repute.” Her eyes raised to look at Grantaire’s own, red-rimmed and swollen. “I’d prefer if you didn’t come here again.”

 Grantaire froze, the woman’s implications making his stomach twist and his heart pound. “W-what?” he gasped in disbelief.

 “You know what I mean,” the woman spat, her lips curling in a sneer. “It’s disgusting, unnatural, and you, making a mockery of honest business by selling it.”

 Grantaire closed his eyes, fighting the tears welling up. He swallowed hard and clenched his jaw.

  _She’s not wrong._

_He threw money at you._

_You are a whore._

“How much for the clothes?” he breathed, opening his eyes and reaching into his pocket to pull out some coins.

 The woman paused and smirked maliciously. “Ten francs.”

 Grantaire fought the urge to scoff. They weren’t worth five. Still, he placed the money on the counter before grabbing his purchase and exiting.

 Luckily, he was only a few steps away from his apartment; the second he shut the door behind him, tears spilled onto his cheeks. “Damn it,” he croaked just before he fell to his knees, new clothes and bottles of wine landing on the floor-thankfully _not_ breaking, he saw later- as he dissolved into yet another breakdown.

 He didn’t think a person could cry this much, almost non-stop for two days. His scalp ached from constantly being pulled on but still, Grantaire found himself threading his fingers through his hair and tugging, distracting him from the lower pain.

  _I didn’t even say anything and she knew._

\---

Grantaire slumped into his usual seat in the Musain, suppressing the wince as pain shot up his spine. He shifted slightly, trying to sit comfortably on the hard wooden chair.  The room was quiet; it was still another twenty minutes before the meeting started, and only Enjolras and Combeferre were present.

 Neither man greeted Grantaire, although Combeferre did shoot a worried look over to him. Grantaire simply smiled, the muscles moving easily now that he was drunk.

 After he’d finished crying, he’d spent the rest of the day drinking his fresh wine until his torso was filled with _warm_ and he could smile and laugh again. It was easy to convince himself that Malain was gone, and would never return and that he could go to the Musain and be with his friends and everything would be as it always was.

 Grantaire leaned forward, resting his weight on the table in front of him. Combeferre finished his conversation with Enjolras and sat down next to Grantaire.

 “Hello, Grantaire, how is your shoulder?” he asked.

 Grantaire lifted his head and smiled. “Oh, it’s fine, Combeferre, good as new. Thank you again.”

 Combeferre nodded, his lips pressed in a thin line. “Do you need help with anything else? Is there anything you want to tell me?”

 Grantaire shook his head vigorously. “No, no, no, Combeferre, no.” he insisted, his voice getting quieter. “No, please don’t ask me again, friend.”

 Combeferre sighed. “Alright,” he said, standing and resting his hand gently on Grantaire’s back.

 Soon, the room was filled with Les Amis; Joly and Bossuet came into together, of course, Jehan arrived with a small bouquet of flowers in his hand and a journal in his arm.

 Malain was last to arrive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Therapy by All Time Low.


	4. Push You Up Against The Wall (You Were Wrong About It)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this would've been up sooner but...
> 
> 1.) Cory and Talia died so I had to mourn for them  
> 2.) I've been out of town for almost two weeks (I still am ahaha)  
> 3.) I was busy writing shit for later chapters hahahahahah =D
> 
> So yeah. Shit hits the fan in this chapter.

“Malain!” Jehan cried, practically skipping over to the dark-haired man. “Malain, I have found the most lovely poem; you must read it.”

Grantaire’s heart stopped, his blood froze in his veins as Malain entered the room. _No, oh, please, no._

Grantaire watched in horror as Jehan and Malain took their seats at the table next to his own. _Please don’t hurt him, oh God, don’t hurt him._

Jehan was by no means weak; he and Grantaire had sparred together once and the older man had been surprised at the force Jehan was capable of exerting. But there was no possible way Jehan could defend himself against Malain. The newcomer was strong, almost unnaturally so.

Grantaire clenched his eyes shut he felt the ghost of Malain’s hands on him, pinning him down, punching him, tugging at his clothes, grabbing his hips, pushing into him…

Grantaire swallowed hard, fighting the urge to run out of the Musain, Paris, France, Europe. His hands were shaking again, trembling on the wooden table. He lifted them, set them on his legs, out of sight of questioning eyes, friends who didn’t know when to leave him alone. His eyes stayed focused on the table as he waited for the night to end.

The meeting was soon called to order; Enjolras began spewing his revolutionary fervor, slamming his hands on tables as he paced around the room; Combeferre read updates on their progress; Feuilly offered new suggestions to motivate the factory workers.

Grantaire remained silent at his empty table, his eyes closed in an attempt to remain composed.

“Grantaire!” Enjolras snapped, halfway through the meeting. “Have you nothing to add, or have you simply imbibed more than your usual share of wine this evening?”

Grantaire raised his eyes for the first time that evening to look at Enjolras. The blond man’s skin practically glowed in the candlelight, illuminating the room with more than his words.

_You are radiant._

Grantaire wet his lips, swallowed and forced his mouth to curl into a lopsided smile. “Dionysus has chosen tonight to bless me, it seems,” he slurred, belatedly realizing there was no bottle on his table. _No matter_ , he thought. _Enjolras has never been one for details._

“And you, Enjolras, it seems a god is looking kindly upon you tonight as well,” Grantaire continued, leaning back in his seat and suppressing a wince as pain shot through his backside. “Then again, Apollo always looks kindly upon you, the light of Paris, the revolution. I believe if we extinguished these candles, sent these stars back to heaven, this room would remain just as bright.” He lifted one trembling hand and cupped it around the flame of the candle resting on his table. “Shall we see, Apollo?”

Enjolras stared at him, indignation on his features. He clenched his jaw and sighed slowly before turning away. “Malain,” he started, “have you any suggestions?”

Grantaire kept his eyes on Enjolras, drowning out Malain’s words with his light. He let his fingers dance through the flame before pinching it out. He smiled when the room became brighter.

A crash echoed from the other side of the room and Grantaire couldn’t stop himself from looking up. Bossuet had dropped a nearly full bottle of wine and was torn between laughing at himself and crying over the loss of perfectly good alcohol.

“That’s it, Bossuet, I’m never letting you hold our bottle again,” Joly said, grinning as he helped the other man pick up the pieces of glass carefully.

A small smile pulled at Grantaire’s lips at his friend’s never ending bad luck. He tried to return his gaze to the patterns in the wood of his table, but something caught his attention from the corner of his eye.

Malain.

The younger man had his vibrant green eyes focused on Grantaire, staring at him intently. Grantaire tried to tear his gaze away but found himself frozen.

_Oh, God, what does he want? Why is he staring at me? Oh, Godgodgod, didn’t he get what he wanted?_

Bile rose in Grantaire’s throat as Malain smirked and deliberately, _so deliberately_ , winked at him.

\---

Grantaire lurched out of his seat, nearly tripping over his own feet as he ran out of the room and outside into the night. He barely heard his friends calling after him, just his brain screaming.

_GET OUT NOW._

\---

“What happened?” Jehan asked confusedly, looking around the room for an answer. “What upset him?”

“Most likely, the loss of a bottle of wine was too much for him to bear,” Enjolras replied dryly, scribbling something on one of the maps spread out on the center table.

Jehan sighed and stood. “I’m going to see if he’s alright.”

Malain rested a hand on Jehan’s arm, stopping him from leaving. “No, stay, Jehan. I’ll go.”

Jehan shook his head. “It’s best if I go, Malain; he responds well to me.”

“Nonsense,” Malain replied, already close to the door. “No need to trouble yourself.”

Jehan’s brow furrowed as he frowned. “It’s not trouble to help Grantaire.”

Malain was already gone.

\---

Grantaire gasped, clutching his stomach as he retched again, nothing but wine and acid coming up his throat. He was slumped on all fours, leaning against the outside wall of the Musain. He’d barely made it outside before his body hit the eject button.

Grantaire coughed as a dry heave wracked his body. There was nothing left now, just tears dripping off of his nose and landing in the vile puddle before him on the ground.

A figure exited the Musain and stood in front of him, blocking the little light that shone from the street lamps.

“I’m fine, friend, no cause for alarm.” Grantaire rasped, keeping his gaze down. “Just a dizzy spell, I’m afraid.”

When there was no response, Grantaire lifted his eyes.

Malain stood there, looking down his nose at Grantaire, a sneer set on his face. Grantaire flinched, cowering back and whimpering, “Please, oh, God, please don’t hurt me!”

Malain didn’t move, just snarled, “Get up.”

When Grantaire didn’t react fast enough, Malain reached down and grabbed his collar roughly before pulling him up. “I said, _get up_ ,” Malain growled, pressing Grantaire against the wall forcefully.

Grantaire squeezed his eyes shut and whimpered again as his back collided with the wall painfully. “Please,” he gasped, the words just barely escaping his throat. “Please, stop, don’t hurt me, ple—“

“Shut. Up.” Malain growled in his ear as he wrapped a hand around Grantaire’s throat. “If I wanted you to beg, I’d be fucking you right now.”

Grantaire sobbed and trembled, trying to find the strength to fight Malain. But his hands wouldn’t curl into fists, his arms wouldn’t lift, his legs wouldn’t kick and he was just _so scared_.

“Now,” Malain started, gently stroking his thumb over Grantaire’s Adam’s apple before pressing against it, making the other man gag. “I feel that it’s time to inform you of my terms.”

“Terms?” Grantaire whispered shakily when Malain eased the pressure on his throat.

“Terms,” Malain verified. “A contract of sorts.”

Grantaire shrunk back against the wall when Malain leaned in to whisper in his ear. “You are _mine_ ,” Malain hissed. “And you _cannot_ escape from me.”

A tiny sob fell from Grantaire’s mouth as he squirmed, trying to get out of Malain’s grip. “Nonono…” he cried. 

“Yes, Grantaire, yes,” Malain taunted gleefully, tightening his hold on Grantaire's throat. “And do you know why you can’t escape? People _fear_ me, Grantaire. They will do whatever I ask of them. If I ask them to watch the every move of a pathetic, drunken, flaming _faggot_ ,” he spat, “they will and they have been doing so.”

 Grantaire’s eyes teared up at the slur. “No,” he gasped. “No, I’m not—“

 Malain laughed, a dark chuckle rumbling in his throat. “Oh, Grantaire, you’re not fooling anyone. One would have to be dumb, deaf, and blind to not notice your _lust_ for our precious leader. Which brings me to the next part of our contract, some…incentive, if you will.” 

“Please, please, stop—“

“I told you to _shut up_ ,” Malain growled, lifting one hand and cracking the back of it against Grantaire’s cheek.

Grantaire yelped at the blow but quickly bit his lip to prevent any more sound from spilling out.

Malain smirked and ran his fingers along the aching cheek. “Good boy, you’re learning.”

Grantaire swallowed nausea and closed his eyes tightly, pulling his face away from Malain’s hand.

The younger man sighed. “If you don’t do what I say, or you try to escape in any way or fashion, not only with I hunt you down and punish you, but I will take your friends.” He raised a hand to grip Grantaire’s chin and force the drunken man to look at him. “I will do whatever I wish to them for however long I wish…and then I will kill them. And you will watch every second, hear them crying and begging and cursing you for letting this happen to them and you will be powerless to stop me.” Malain leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Grantaire’s, his green eyes boring into Grantaire’s own blue eyes. “Do you understand me?”

Grantaire exhaled shakily and nodded slowly, closing his eyes as tears spilled onto his cheeks.

A sick grin spread across Malain’s face. “Good boy,” he taunted, pressing his thumb into Grantaire’s Adam’s apple again. “Now, I’m going to inform them that you simply drank a bit much tonight, and had a—what did you call it?—ah, a dizzy spell, and that I’m going to walk you home.” Malain took a step back and removed his hands from Grantaire.

“Eyes, Grantaire,” he said as he moved to enter the Musain again. “They’re everywhere.”

\---

The second Malain was out of sight, Grantaire doubled over and started retching again, his body hell-bent on ejecting every organ. “Fuck,” he gasped, panic setting into his bones. “Fuckfuckfuck—“

“Fuck, indeed, Grantaire,” Malain said as he exited the Musain again, a smirk in his tone. “Come,” he said, gripping Grantaire’s arm roughly. “I must take you home.”

\---

“I’ll have to be a bit more careful this time,” Malain muttered as he ripped Grantaire’s clothes off; shredding his shirt and trousers. “Wouldn’t want you running off to Combeferre again, would we?”

He shoved Grantaire into the mattress, face down, before tangling a hand in his dark curls. “Yes, Grantaire, I know you went to see him yesterday,” he breathed into Grantaire’s ear. “I also know you went to the wine shop near here, and the clothing shop.”

Malain slowly unbuttoned his trousers and freed his hardened cock. “That Madame Bissette is lovely, isn’t she?”

Grantaire trembled as he felt Malain’s cock slipping into his crease. His shaking hands fisted the sheets under him as he hid his face in the mattress. A sob wracked his body as Malain spat on his hole. “Please,” he choked out, trying to pull away from Malain’s hold on his hips. “Please, please, please, don’t—“

Grantaire cut himself off with a scream. Oh, God, it was worse this time; it was so much worse this time. He was being torn in half, he was sure of it, split down the middle. He screamed with every inward thrust and sobbed with every outward pull.

_I can’t breathe, oh, God, I can’t breathe, why can’t I breathe?!_

He realized, belatedly, that Malain had both hands wrapped around his throat, squeezing, cutting off his air.

His lips moved, forming words, _please, stop, no, God, please, no, please_ but no sound escaped. He heard Malain laugh behind him and suddenly, _air._

Grantaire gasped and started thrashing under Malain, trying to buck the younger man off. “Stop, _please_ , stop it now, _God_ , please stop!”

A knife came into view and instantly, he froze.

“I _will_ use this, Grantaire.”

And just like that, every muscle in Grantaire’s body gave up, went pliant as his eyes focused on the sharp blade held in front of his face. He let Malain pull roughly at his hair, choke him, _fuck_ him, laugh when he cried, lick the tears from his face like before.

All with a knife held before him.

His hands gripping the sheets was the only thing tethering him to reality. His fingers were cramping from keeping such a tight hold and _everything hurt_.

_Oh, God, is he done yet?_

_Maybe I should just grab the knife._

_Who should I kill?_

_Him?_

_Me?_

_Me._

_I can’t do anything._

_Malain is good for the revolution._

_Enjolras is proud of him._

_Enjolras hates me._

_I am worthless._

_I should die._

One of Grantaire’s hands slowly loosened its grip and was about to reach for the knife when—

 Grantaire heard Malain groan behind him, and felt a flood of warmth inside him. He fought the sudden wave of nausea as Malain pulled out, smearing blood and semen across his back and ass.

 Malain stood, redressed, and before he left, he grabbed a handful of dark curls and pulled Grantaire’s head back as far as he could. He pressed a gentle kiss to Grantaire’s cheek and whispered, “Good boy.”

He pocketed his knife, closed the door, and was gone.

 Grantaire gagged, not even bothering to reach for the chamber pot, as he knew nothing would come up. He coughed and sobbed and heaved and _shook_ , God, he was shaking so hard.

  _It’s over._

_He’s gone._

_It’s over, it’s over, it’s over._

_It’s just begun._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter titles taken from Push by Marianas Trench.  
> also I totally fucked up the posting of this chapter on the meme ooops sorry


	5. I Think That I Might Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooo boy-oh this chapter was so hard to write for some reason. 
> 
> DID NO ONE NOTICE THE OBSCURE GRANTAIRE BRICK QUOTE REFERENCE IN THE LAST CHAPTER?!
> 
> COme on, I felt so awesome when I wrote it, ya'll need to step up your game. =D

Time stopped when Malain left.

 The sun had already set, leaving Grantaire in solitary darkness. He was still bleeding; he could feel the warm fluid sliding down the inside of his thighs and staining the mattress beneath him even further.

 His body trembled uncontrollably, as if his muscles were locked in spasms, trying to rid themselves of phantom hands.

 He floated somewhere between sleep and consciousness until pink and orange tinged his room as the sun rose on Paris.

It wasn’t until the full light of day flooded the room that Grantaire attempted to move. He pushed himself up onto his forearms, biting his lip against the pain. He looked down and saw the pool of blood underneath him, soaking into the mattress. He sobbed, an anguished cry trying to escape from his throat and coming out as a painful wheeze.

  _My voice is gone._

Grantaire’s eyes flooded with tears for the first time since Malain left. He buried his face in his hands for a few moments before gripping the sheets below him. He could feel the mess of drying fluids still covering his lower back and a nauseating _need_ to remove the _filth_ overwhelmed him.

 He pushed himself onto his knees far too fast for his body and a ragged, raspy, broken scream tore itself from his injured throat. He could feel fresh blood running down the back of his thighs.

 Clenching his jaw, Grantaire kicked the bunched trousers still around his calves off and brought himself to his feet.

 Ignoring the blood trail followed him, Grantaire limped to the washbasin, quickly drenched a rag in the water and started scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing.

  _Filthy disgusting putrid repulsive sickening_

_Whore._

_Whore._

_Whore._

_Whore._

_Whore._

 ---

 Grantaire’s entire body tensed as he felt Malain sliding his hardened cock into his crease.

 "Fucking whore,” Malain spat as he curled his fingers in the older man’s hair. “You can’t fight me, you can’t escape me, you can’t do anything.”

 Grantaire sobbed and tried to bury his face in the mattress, but Malain wrenched his head up the grip in his hair and breathed, “You are good for one thing and one thing only.”

 And then he pushed in.

Malain pushed Grantaire’s face into the bed, stifling the scream that followed and effectively cutting off Grantaire’s air supply

 Grantaire thrashed, his arms gripping at the sheets, his entire body bucking as he fought to breathe.

 All while Malain was thrusting, pushing into him.

 His chest ached for oxygen and his vision was going black when—

  _CRASH_

\---

Grantaire awoke from his nightmare with a start. He looked around frantically, his hands curled into fists, ready to defend himself. The sun was setting, casting an eerie light over the room. Grantaire’s eyes landed on an empty, shattered wine bottle on the other side of the room.

 Grantaire exhaled sharply and slumped against the wall behind him. He brought his shaky hands up to wipe away the tears littering his face and closed his eyes

  _It was just a dream._

_He’s not here._

_You’re safe._

_It was just a dream._

A raspy, mirthless laugh fell from Grantaire’s lips. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to force the tears back.

  _This is not a dream._

_This is happening._

“Fuck,” Grantaire panted, the word coming out broken and rough. His voice was still raspy from the damage Malain had wrought on his throat.

 He lifted his head from his hands and immediately reached for the half-empty bottle sitting on the floor next to him.

 He brought it to his lips and tilted his head back, swallowing the sweet wine quickly, sighing happily at the warm feeling that filled his chest.

 The bottle was drained within moments.

  _More._

Grantaire glanced at the other empty bottles strewn about on his floor and sighed. The wine shops were closed or closing by now; he’d have to wait until tomorrow.

 He was about to lie down and attempt to get some sleep once more when something white near the door caught his attention.

 He crawled over to it, quickly recognizing it as paper from Jehan’s favorite notebook. He unfolded the note, smiling when he saw Jehan’s beautiful script covering the page.

 ‘Dearest R,

Our friends Joly and Bossuet met me in the Gardens this afternoon when you didn’t join them for brunch at the Corinth. They asked if I had seen you, knowing that you often meet me in the Gardens after eating with them on Saturdays. I said I hadn’t, and we were quite a bit worried, seeing as you fell ill last night. We came here, knocked on your door for a bit, hoping you would answer. Alas, you didn’t. We assumed you were resting and, as Joly suggested, decided to come back tomorrow to see if you are well.

Kindest regards,

Jean Prouvaire’

 Grantaire sighed and ran a hand through his tangled curls. He’d completely forgotten about his friends and his usual meetings with them. Saturdays were always the day he ate with Joly and Bossuet, and then joined Jehan in the Tuileries Gardens. He and the poet often sat in the shade; Jehan would write while Grantaire sketched.

 However, with the sudden introduction of Malain into his life, all this had no place in Grantaire’s mind.

 He read the note again, and realized that his friends would be coming back the next day.

 “Shit,” he whispered to the empty room. There were clothes, stained, torn clothes and bloody rags and broken glass and bottles everywhere.

 Grantaire sighed and carefully folded Jehan’s note before slowly getting to his feet.

  _Clean, clean, clean_

_Wash him away._

\---

 Grantaire spent the whole night trying to tidy his apartment. It was difficult. He had to stop and rest often considering he hadn’t consumed anything but wine the past few days.

 He managed, though, shoved the ruined clothing into the hole under his floorboards, with all the other ruined clothes, washed his bloodied rags, swept up the broken glass.

 When he finished, the sun was just beginning to rise, beautiful pinks and oranges and purples painted across the horizon.

 Grantaire stared longingly at the sight, his heart swelling in his chest at the idea of painting it, immortalizing it, giving it to Jehan so he could write a poem about it.

 He was just about to grab a canvas, his paints, when he realized.

 His hands were too shaky. Every line, each stroke would be a mess.

 Grantaire sighed, tore himself away from the window.

 He looked around his room, searching for anything that would give away the state he’d been in for the last few days, or what had happened.

 The physical traces were absent, the blood and other fluids cleaned up or hidden, the other signs of distress gone. There were finger-shaped bruises on his neck, but clothes could hide those easily. His voice was almost back to normal. The smell, though, that couldn’t be removed.

 The room smelled like sex, blood, sweat, shame, agony.

 It was revolting.

 Grantaire bit his lip, wracking his brain for anything that would mask the stench.

 He shook his head, defeated, and sat himself on the floor, facing the window, the sunrise.

 He would just have to hope for the best, pray to anyone that would listen than his friends wouldn’t be able to tell immediately his plight.

 Jehan’s note hadn’t mentioned a specific time.

 Grantaire watched the sun slowly rise, the colors shifting and changing.

 And he waited.

\---

It was some time after the sun had fully rose and the city had woken up and began its Sunday that Jehan, Joly and Bossuet arrived.

 Jehan was the one who knocked, so softly that Grantaire didn’t hear it.

 The second knock Grantaire did hear; it was Joly this time, his fist pounding on the door worriedly.

 "Grantaire?”

 The dark-haired man stood slowly, careful not to injure himself and opened the door to his friends.

 “R, it’s so good to see you!” Bossuet grinned as soon as Grantaire came into view.

 Grantaire forced himself to return the smile. “You as well, friend.”

 Jehan leaned forward to wrap his arms around Grantaire in a sweet hug. The shorter man had to stop himself from flinching; it was the first positive human contact he’d had in nearly two days.

 “May we come in?” Jehan asked as he pulled away, keeping a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder.

  _Fuck._

 Grantaire nodded and pulled the door open wider. “Of course,” he replied, hoping the tremor in his voice wasn’t noticeable.

 “Are you feeling better?” Joly asked once they entered the room.

  _Lie._

 Grantaire shrugged a shoulder. “A little bit, yes. I slept most of yesterday. I’m sorry I didn’t join you.”

 “That’s alright,” Jehan smiled as he wandered over to the small desk pushed against the wall where Grantaire kept his sketches.

 “We’re just glad you’re feeling better,” Bossuet said, slinging an arm around Grantaire’s shoulders.

  _Don’t flinch._

 “Thank you, friends,” Grantaire mumbled. “I think I just needed a day to rest.”

  _Please leave before I say something I shouldn’t._

 “We’ll see you tomorrow at the Musain?” Joly inquired, his eyes raised hopefully.

 Grantaire nodded quickly. “Yes, or course. I’ll see you then.”

 Luckily, the trio didn’t stay long; they left soon after that, Jehan pressing a sweet kiss to Grantaire’s cheek as he left.

 When they were gone, Grantaire watched them leave his street through his small window, making sure they weren’t coming back.

 When they were out of sight, Grantaire sighed, visibly deflated, and slumped against the wall.

 He was exhausted.

\---

 Later that morning, Grantaire gathered enough courage to exit his apartment and brave the city. He was out of wine and food and sadly, he needed more clothes.

 He pulled the small, leather purse where he kept his funds from the drawer of the desk and emptied its contents on the desktop. Between boxing matches and the occasional painting commission, Grantaire had put aside a decent amount of money. He counted the coins and bills quickly. Two hundred, seventy-five francs, and fifty sous.

  _Enough for two months, maybe longer._

 Grantaire stuffed the money back into his purse, straightened his clothes to cover the visible bruises, grabbed his satchel, and exited his apartment.

\---

Considering it was Sunday, there were far fewer shops open in Paris than usual. Grantaire, however, had spent most of his time in the city finding the best stores and cafes and so he knew exactly which places were open on the Lord’s Day.

 From the way he had hobbled down the stairs, however, Grantaire knew he wouldn’t be able to walk to the shops he needed to visit. His limp was very noticeable, and strange enough that one might be able to discern its cause, as had Madame Bissette.

 Grantaire closed his eyes as that humiliating memory flashed in his mind. He swallowed, bit his lip nervously, and waited for an empty fiacre to enter his street.

 ---

 An hour and a half later, Grantaire was slowly climbing up the stairs to his apartment, his satchel full of wine, food, and clothes, but mostly wine. He heaved a sigh of relief as he shut the door to his room, locking out the world.

 He unpacked his bag, setting the wine bottles carefully on his desk, along with the bread and cheese he’d purchased. One bottle, however, he opened immediately, tipping his head back slightly as he swallowed, closing his eyes as that comforting _warm_ filled him.

 The bottle was more than halfway empty when he tore off a chunk of bread and a piece of cheese a minute later.

 His stomach was empty thirty seconds after eating just that little bit.

\---

The next day was Monday, which meant an evening meeting at the Musain.

Grantaire stumbled into the cafe that afternoon, a good three hours before the meeting began, his satchel over his shoulder. He dropped into his regular seat, pulled out his sketchbook, and ordered a bottle of wine.

He hadn’t slept the night before, as he hadn’t been for almost a week. After his failed attempt to eat the day before, Grantaire had slumped against the wall and drank until he could close his eyes without seeing Malain.

Now, at the Musain, Grantaire’s shaky hands tried to sketch something, anything, to distract himself.

“R!”

The dark-haired man’s head snapped up at the small voice, and a smile came easily when he saw who it was.

“Gavroche, how’s my favorite _gamin_ today?”

“I’m well, and how’s my favorite friend today?”

Grantaire grinned and ruffled the boy’s messy hair. “I’ve had better days, friend.”

Gavroche nodded knowingly and craned his head to look at Grantaire’s sketchbook. “What are you drawing?”

“Nothing, really,” Grantaire sighed, looking at the nearly blank paper in front of him. “Not sure what to draw.”

“You can draw me!” Gavroche exclaimed, showing off his gap-toothed smile.

Grantaire returned the grin. “Alright then, grab a chair, _gamin_.”

Grantaire reached inside his bag and pulled out the loaf of bread he’d bought the day before.  He handed it to the young boy, seated across the table from him. “Here, Gav, Eat up.”

Gavroche looked at the older man quizzically. “Don’t you need this?”

Grantaire shook his head. “No, I don’t. Save some for you friend, little one.”

Gavroche scowled. “I’m not little; I’m the tallest of all the _gamins_.”

Grantaire smirked as he started drawing. “You’re also the oldest of all the _gamins_.”

“I am not!”

\---

By the time Enjolras arrived, forty-five minutes before the meeting was to begin, Gavroche was gone, and Grantaire was slumped forward, his upper half resting on the table before him, his restless fingers tapping out messy rhythms.

He had been sitting alone for some time now, his mind racing. He had to escape Malain somehow. There had to be some way. Perhaps he could move in with one of his friends. Surely, Malain wouldn’t dare hurt him in one of his friends’ rooms?

“Good evening, Grantaire,” Enjolras clipped, formal voice echoed in the nearly empty back room.

Grantaire slowly raised his eyes. “Good evening, Apollo.”

Enjolras sighed. “Must you call me that?”

Grantaire was about to answer when Combeferre entered the room with Jehan.

“Jehan, you would’ve loved it; you must see it when you’re able.”

“What is the title again? The premise sounds fascinating.”

“ _Hernani, ou l'Honneur Castillan_.”

“Oh, good evening, Grantaire,” Jehan smiled as he took a seat next to the dark-haired man. “Have you any new sketches?”

Grantaire nodded and opened his sketchbook to show the poet the drawing of Gavroche.

Jehan grinned and pulled out his own notebook. “Oh, this will be fun.”

It was a co-creative effort between the two; Grantaire would show Jehan his sketches and the younger man would write poems inspired by the art, or vice versa.

The rest of Les Amis slowly trickled in; Grantaire tried his hardest to behave normally.

_They’ll know something is wrong if you don’t act normal._

“Are you feeling well, Grantaire?” Courfeyrac asked, clapping a hand on the other man’s back. “Joly told me you were not well on Saturday.”

Grantaire smiled tightly. “I am better today, thank you. Simply too much wine, I believe.”

Courfeyrac laughed, “I believe you are correct, friend.”

_You have no clue._

“Courfeyrac,” Grantaire said, catching the Center’s sleeve and pulling him aside. “Is there any chance I could perhaps relocate myself to your apartment?”

Courfeyrac frowned and shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. Marius is currently sleeping on my spare mattress. What’s wrong with your apartment?”

_Shit._

“N-neighbors,” Grantaire stuttered, hoping the lie was convincing enough.

Courfeyrac nodded knowingly. “Ah, that is quite irritating. I’ll let you know if I find a place for you.”

Grantaire smiled, although it looked more like a grimace. “Thank you, Courfeyrac.”

He returned to his seat, wincing when pain shot up his spine. Jehan was still in the chair next to his. Grantaire swallowed, feeling the words stick in his throat. “Jehan,” he rasped.

The poet turned to face him. “Yes?”

_“If you don’t do what I say, or you try to escape in any way or fashion, not only will I hunt you down and punish you, but I will take your friends.”_

Grantaire gasped as Malain’s words echoed in his head.

_“I will do whatever I wish to them…and then I will kill them…crying and begging and cursing you for letting this happen to them.”_

_How could you even risk that happening to any of them?_

Grantaire stared in shock at Jehan, sweet Jehan’s face.

_You could’ve gotten him killed. Raped and killed._

“R? What’s wrong?”

 Grantaire snapped out of his daze, saw Jehan, Bahorel and Combeferre staring at him worriedly.

 Grantaire cleared his throat, and whispered, “Nothing, I’m sorry, nothing’s wrong.”

 “Are you still ill?” Combeferre asked, his brow furrowed.

 Grantaire shook his head quickly, his fingers searching for the nearest bottle of wine. “No, no, not at all. Just tired, I suppose.”

 Combeferre was about to speak when Malain entered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun-dun-dun!!!!!!!!
> 
> Now, there is a reference in this chapter, super obscure and I found it while doing research for some dialogue in this chapter and if no one gets it, I'm gonna be so bummed, cuz it's seriously hiliarious.
> 
> Put on your thinking caps...
> 
> Alsoooooo a special surprise will be posted some time next weeeeeeeeek ;)
> 
> Chapter title from Breathe Me by Sia.


	6. And Besides, My Reputation's On The Line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY OH MY GOD  
> RL got crazy and I got writer's block and I ended up with this short, little chapter that's about 89% filler  
> BUT  
> The next chapter will be up waaaay soon, and there will be....  
> PLOT ADVANCEMENT  
> HELLZ TO THE YEAH

It was as if a storm cloud settled above Grantaire’s head when Malain entered the room.

He gripped the bottle in his hand tightly, and dropped his eyes to focus on the table before him. He listened to his friends greeting the younger man, pushing him aside, ignoring him.

_You are a nuisance._

_You do nothing but bring them down._

The meeting commenced a few minutes later and Grantaire found himself closing his eyes, folding his arms on the table and resting his head on them. He’d gotten so little sleep over the weekend, and ate even less. He was so exhausted and, surely, no one would notice him sleeping…

“ _Grantaire!_ ”

The dark haired man shot up, biting back a whimper as his body screamed at him in pain. He opened his eyes, only to see Enjolras glaring at him as he leaned over the cynic’s table.

Grantaire smiled, although he suspected it resembled a grimace more than anything, and carefully brought the bottle to his lips. “Yes?” he mumbled as he took a sip.

Enjolras inhaled slowly through his nose. “You’ll not use this place to sleep off your inebriation.”

Grantaire responded with a long swig from the bottle.

_You are hurting him._

_He does not deserve this._

Enjolras sneered and turned away, leaving Grantaire to drown himself.

It was a few minutes later, when Malain started speaking, that Grantaire wished he had any form of self-control.

“Perhaps we can organize groups to go to the workers, instead of the workers coming to us,” Malain said, his voice smooth. “We could give out pamphlets at the end of the workday, as the workers are leaving the factories and shops.”

Grantaire snorted. “This, from a man who has likely only met three working men in his life.”

All eyes, with the exception of Malain, turned to look at Grantaire. There was indignation in Joly’s eyes, frustration in Jehan’s, disbelief in Feuilly’s, and complete annoyance in Bossuet’s.

“Workers will not listen to well-dressed students and their hollow promises after a long day of thankless labor, with a foreman screaming all day. All they wish after such a day is a bottle, a bed and an alley whore. They will not care about your ideals, your plans. They will not listen to your shining words. It is a brainless suggestion.”

Before anyone else could respond, Malain spoke again, continuing as if no one had interrupted him. “It would be simple; instead of planning speeches and such, we could print leaflets with basic information; where and when meetings are held, for example, along with our goals and a brief outline of our plans. There would be no need for speeches, and it would take mere seconds of their time.”

Grantaire tried to sink into the earth.

_You have only made things worse._

\---

“Did you think yourself clever this evening?” Malain mocked, as he tugged Grantaire’s trousers down with one hand, the other curled around the older man’s throat. “Rebelling against me in such an inconspicuous manner?”

Grantaire gasped around the gag in his mouth, his own cravat, knotted at the back of his skull, and craned his neck in an attempt to allow air back into his lungs. He was fully naked, lying on his back, instead of his stomach as before, with Malain kneeling above him. His arms were restrained behind his back, tied tightly, with the weight of his torso compressing them and cutting off his circulation.

“It’s quite pathetic, really. You did no harm to me, and instead, annoyed your so called friends, as well as earning yourself a punishment.”

Grantaire’s eyes widened in fear.

_What could possibly be worse than this?_

Grantaire whimpered as Malain forced his legs apart. Something told him to fight, and he pulled his legs together, away from Malain’s grip.

The younger man growled, “Should I tie your ankles as well? This will only make it more difficult for you.”

_He’ll kill them if you fight._

Grantaire didn’t struggle when Malain pushed his legs apart again before shoving two spit slicked fingers inside him. He let his eyes close, tried to block out the burn of Malain’s digits stretching him. He tried to pretend that this wasn’t happening, not to him, no, to someone else, some other poor soul.

A harsh slap to Grantaire’s face brought him back to reality.

“You will keep your eyes open,” Malain hissed, fisting a hand in Grantaire’s curls before he pushed himself in.

Grantaire cried out around the gag in his mouth, his body shaking uncontrollably.

_It never gets better._

_It only gets worse._

_It will never end._

A sudden sharp pain on his chest forced Grantaire to look down. A blade, held in Malain’s hand, was being dragged along his sternum, drawing blood to the surface.

Grantaire screamed as Malain started thrusting into him, still cutting into his chest.

When it was finally over, and Grantaire was shaking, his chest covered in blood and Malain’s semen, the cuts stinging painfully, the younger man gripped Grantaire’s hair again.

“This is what happens when you defy me,” He said lowly, his voice gravely in Grantaire’s ear. “And this is only the beginning.”

\---

He never spoke out against Malain again.

Well, not in front of the man.

That was the thing with Grantaire; he couldn’t keep his mouth shut, he always had to voice his opinion.

So the next day, Tuesday, Grantaire forced himself to get up, made his way to the Musain, and slumped into a seat.

His chest was cut to hell, at least twenty lacerations, and they’d bled quite a lot. He’d bandaged them with a ripped shirt from the hole in his floorboards, wrapped the cloth around his chest tightly.

There was nothing else he could do.

He sat in the Musain, a bottle of wine and a small loaf of bread on the table before him. He tried to work up the strength to eat; he knew he needed food. Surviving on wine alone was not possible; he knew this from experience.

He tore off a small chunk, chewed it slowly, and sighed as it slid down his throat. He waited for his stomach to churn, nausea to settle. When it didn’t, he smiled slightly and ate another piece.

Jehan, accompanied by Courfeyrac, Joly, and Bossuet, entered a few moments later.

The smiles fell from their faces when they saw Grantaire, and when they all took seats near him, he knew he was in trouble.

“That was uncalled for, last night,” Jehan said, in lieu of a greeting.

Grantaire didn’t respond, just kept eating, afraid that if he stopped, he would be sick.

“Did you hear me?” Jehan demanded. “It was uncalled for!”

Grantaire kept his eyes down. “I’m sorry,” He mumbled around a piece of bread.

“It’s not us you need to apologize to,” Courfeyrac said, stealing a sip of wine from Grantaire’s bottle.

Grantaire nodded shakily, nausea finally settling itself in his stomach.

“I mean, really, ‘Aire,” Joly says, tearing off a chunk of bread. “Malain is trying to help us, the cause. He has the best intentions.”

“And his suggestion was valid,” Bossuet added.

Grantaire swallowed hard, pushing down the acid rising in his throat.

_You deserve this._

_There is no point in telling them the truth._

_They wouldn’t believe you._

_You have been replaced._

The scolding ended, but the four men didn’t leave; instead, they ordered more bread, cheese, and wine. Grantaire shrunk into his seat, anxiety flooding his chest. He grabbed the closest bottle of wine, threw his head back, and drank, fast and desperate, _needing_ that warm feeling.

He drained the bottle, wiped a few drops from his mouth, and grinned.

_You can do this._

_You must._

_You must pretend as if all is well._

_You must._

“Well, friends,” Grantaire said, forcing glee into his tone. “Any new tales?”

\---

The rest of the week passed without incident, if you could call it that.

Malain followed Grantaire back to his apartment after the meetings on Wednesday and Friday.

He didn’t choke, or cut, or gag Grantaire these times.

Thank the Lord for small blessings.

When Saturday arrived, Grantaire redressed his wounds, (they were not healing; he’d have to buy some salve), attempted to make himself look presentable, and walked the short distance to the Musain to meet with Joly and Bossuet.

The couple was already there when he entered. They’d ordered a platter of bread, meat, and cheese, as well as wine, and were already deep in conversation.

Grantaire carefully took a seat at the table and grabbed the closest bottle.

“Oh, hello, ‘Aire,” Bossuet greeted cheerfully. “Joly was just telling me about this incredible medical advancement he heard about from Malain.”

“It’s fascina—“

“I don’t wish to hear about it,” Grantaire interrupted, taking another long pull from the bottle. “If it interests Malain, it does not interest me.”

Joly and Bossuet stared at Grantaire, slack jawed. The younger man was first to recover from his shock.

“That man has done nothing to bring about such unkindness from you,” Joly hissed, his voice filled with rancor. “I will not have you insulting him in my presence.”

Grantaire glanced up at Bossuet, and flinched when he saw anger covering his friend’s features. He nodded jerkily and tightened his grip on the bottle in his hand.

Later that day, when he met Jehan in the Tuileries Gardens, he received the same scolding.

_He is taking your place._

It continued like this for a month; Grantaire fighting for his friends’ attention, trying to somehow alert them to Malain’s actions, show them that he was not who he said he was. 

And it exploded in his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really am a horrible person oh my God I should be thrown in fanfic jail
> 
> Chapter title from I've Got A Dark Alley And A Bad Idea That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth (Summer Song) by Fall Out Boy, a.k.a. One Of Grantaire's Theme Songs a.k.a. One Of Etcetera's Theme Songs a.k.a Oh My God I Can't Stop Crying Pete Wentz Understands Me So Well.
> 
> Ahem.


	7. These Words Are Knives And Often Leave Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyyyyy folks  
> new chapter  
> new tortures  
> yeaaaaahhhhh
> 
> EDIT: alrighty-dighty, so i added a new section pertaining to Les Amis and making them better friends. A big thank you to everyone who commented so nicely on Les Amis lack of being good friends, I really appreciate the construcive crit. <3  
> Nothing has been removed, just some more stuff added in

It was early on a Friday afternoon when Grantaire stumbled into the Musain. The back room was empty; the meeting wasn’t to begin for another four hours. Grantaire settled into a seat; he’d brought a small cushion with him this time, hoping that it would make it easier for him to sit on the hard, wooden chair. He opened his satchel and pulled out his sketchbook.

He was getting so weak; eating was nearly impossible now. On good days, he could a eat handful of bread or an apple without vomiting. On bad days, only wine or water would stay down. On the worst days, he couldn’t open his mouth without nausea overwhelming him.

Due to this, he hadn’t been physically able to do most of his hobbies for over a month; boxing, dancing, fencing, even his hands had been too shaky to hold a pencil. He missed them.

But in the soft lighting and quiet of the back room, Grantaire could focus enough to calm his hands.

His own rooms were disgusting; stained with blood and other things, reeking of sex and sweat and shame. It was impossible to breathe, to function in there. It was stifling.

But in the Musain, Grantaire could close his eyes, breathe in deeply, and clear his head of everything, will his fingers to still themselves.

He started sketching, anything that came to mind; Feuilly leaning over a fan, painting the last few details; Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta huddled together at a small table; Jehan and Bahorel playing _bras de fer_ ; Courfeyrac ruffling Gavroche’s hair; Combeferre and Enjolras slumped over a sea of papers; Marius, with his head resting on his chin, gazing off into the distance, thinking of his beloved Ursula.

It all came so easy, and Grantaire completely lost track of time, barely noticed when the Amis started filling the room.

Jehan settled into the seat next to him and gently rested a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder, snapping the older man out of his focus.

“Hello, ‘Aire,” he smiled, leaning over to look at Grantaire’s current sketch.

Grantaire looked up and smiled, “Hello, Jehan, how are you?”

“Very well, thank you. I have a question to ask of you.”

Grantaire froze. _Please do not ask me how I am._

“Why, exactly, do you not like Malain?”

_Fuck._

“What I mean is, why have you never attempted to engage a conversation with him, or join one of us when we’re speaking with him? He’s interested in a great many things; I’m sure you and he have at least one thing in common. So…why?”

_Because he follows me home after every meeting and fucks me._

_And I don’t want it._

_And he promised to kill you and our friends if I don’t do what he says._

_And I’m so terrified of him that I can’t fight him._

_I’m so pathetic; I fight for entertainment and I can’t fend him off._

Grantaire said none of this, just cleared his throat and murmured, “I simply don’t enjoy his company.”

Jehan sighed, the expression on his face clearly showing his disappointment in the mediocre answer. He opened his mouth to respond when Enjolras addressed the room.

“Well, Amis, although Malain’s suggestion did not succeed as we had hoped, let us not lose faith! Perhaps, on a different evening, we’ll accomplish more.”

Before Grantaire could stop himself, bitter words fell from his mouth. “I was correct, then,” He called out, a resentful smirk on his lips.

Enjolras paused, his features turning dark as he resolutely kept his gaze away from the cynic.

“Oh, come now, Enjolras, I know Malain is your new _protégé,_ but even you can admit an imbecilic idea when you hear one,” Grantaire continued, ignoring how the tension in the room increased uncomfortably.

“Could you expect more—“

Enjolras slammed his hands down on Grantaire’s table, cutting off the dark haired man’s ranting.

“You will cease that talk this instant,” Enjolras hissed, his blue eyes alight with fury, staring Grantaire down. “We have listened to you criticize Malain for weeks. Malain has done nothing to deserve your vitriol, and I will not have you disgracing a man who has achieved so much for our cause. He has helped us far more than you ever have, with your snide comments and worthless input. You have never helped us, only served as a distraction and a discouragement.”

Enjolras paused, inhaled sharply, and continued before Grantaire could interrupt. “He _cares_ , unlike you, who have never cared about anything. Nothing is sacred to you; it’s all just a joke. It’s pathetic,” Enjolras spat, his lips curled in a snarl. “Malain is twice the man you will ever be. You are useless, worthless and I would choose Malain over you under any circumstances.”

The following silence was deafening.

Grantaire’s face was blank, devoid of all emotion. He swallowed slowly, glanced around the room at his friends, his heart sinking when he saw they were all stone faced, looking anywhere but at Grantaire, some even had their backs turned.

Grantaire could feel tears starting to burn his eyes. He stood, silently, shakily, leaving his sketchbook and cushion abandoned and stumbled towards the door, running right into a chattering Malain.

“Apologies for my tardiness, friends, there was a commotion in the street and—“

The man’s strong body was no match for Grantaire’s weakened own, and the older man fell back, landing painfully on his backside. A cry, which sounded almost like a dog’s pained yelp, pierced the tense air of the room. Grantaire whimpered and he could’ve sworn he felt a light trickle of blood underneath him.

“Oh, pardon me, friend,” Malain grinned, reaching a hand out to Grantaire. “Let me help you.”

Grantaire grit his teeth, pointedly did not take Malain’s hand, and gingerly rose to his feet, before fleeing the Musain as fast as he could.

\---

Later that night, when Malain forced his way into Grantaire’s apartment, he was unnervingly silent; his face was blank as he slammed Grantaire’s skull into the closest wall.

\---

When Grantaire regained consciousness, the first thing he noticed was the pain shooting through his head.

The second thing he noticed was that he was on his back and tied up; his legs were flat on the bed, his knees bent and there was rope binding his elbows to his knees and his wrists to his ankles.

And then he realized Malain was already inside him.

“Welcome back, “ Malain said, his voice sickly sweet. “I was beginning to wonder if you were going to wake up at all this evening.”

Grantaire whimpered and tried to struggle, but his bonds were tight and very effective at limiting his movement. “Stop, please, I’m sorry, I—“

“Oh, you’re sorry?  Well, I accept your apology, but that’s not going to change the fact that you have disobeyed me, yet again.”

Grantaire clenched his eyes shut tightly. “Please don’t hurt me again, please,” he begged.

“Oh,” Malain cooed, his voice laced with sympathy. “Shush, you pathetic thing. Now, I do believe that hearing Enjolras berate you was punishment enough, so we’re going to try something else, and if we like it well enough, we’ll do it often.” Malain ran a hand down Grantaire’s chest slowly before coming to rest on the older man’s stomach, just above his flaccid cock.

Grantaire tensed, his breath catching in his throat. “No,” he gasped. “Please.”

Malain grinned maliciously. “Oh, you’ve already guessed what I have planned, very good!” He punctuated the last word with an angled thrust of his hips, striking Grantaire’s prostate.

Grantaire whimpered at pleasure shot through him. This was horrible, disgusting, how could anyone ever think of doing such a thing? And Malain didn’t stop, just kept thrusting, kept hitting that spot inside him.

Grantaire squirmed, twisting in an attempt to dislodge Malain or throw him off, cries of “stop, please stop, God, no, don’t do this, please” falling from his lips.

“Shut up,” Malain hissed, curling his fingers around Grantaire’s cock and gently started stroking the soft flesh.

A sob tore itself from Grantaire’s chest as his body reacted to Malain’s touch. Within minutes, his cock was hard and Malain kept thrusting into him, hitting that spot and making sparks of pleasure fly through Grantaire’s veins.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block everything out, only to open them again as Malain’s free hand griped his throat and practically crushed his airways.

“Eyes open,” Malain growled in Grantaire’s ear.

Grantaire heaved, gasped around Malain’s hold as he felt his orgasm approaching. His entire body, every muscle, was tense, fighting the impending pleasure.

And then he was falling over the edge, his vision blacking and whiting simultaneously and then Malain released his throat and the sudden influx of oxygen made everything white and he was coming _so hard_ and it would’ve been amazing _if he’d wanted it._

And Malain was above him, still tugging on his cock and laughing as he spent all over himself.

And Grantaire wished he could kill this vile man who was releasing inside him and cutting the ropes binding him and slapping him.

“I own you,” Malain hissed. “And if you defy me again, if you drop little hints to them just one more time, I _will_ kill them.” Malain twisted a hand in Grantaire’s curls and pulled his head back harshly. “I’ve been merciful to you, but I will not be a third time.”

Malain removed his hand from the dark hair, only to slap Grantaire cruelly, and slipped away like a shadow.

\---

Grantaire gasped and spat into the chamber pot under his head, trying to rid his mouth the residual acid. He reached out from his sprawled position on the floor, grasping for the full bottles of wine he kept under his bed. His fingers closed around the neck of one and within seconds, it was open, and Grantaire was drinking, desperate for comfort, _anything_.

He was finishing a second bottle when he realized it wasn’t helping, he wasn’t calming down, his head was still screaming, his body was still shaking, he couldn’t get out, couldn’t stop, couldn’t—

Grantaire screamed, threw the empty bottle in his hand against the nearest wall, curled into a trembling, sobbing ball as glass rained down around him.

He screamed and screamed and screamed, weakly slamming his hands against the floor beneath him, ignoring the tiny shards embedding themselves in his flesh.

It was when a piece of glass sliced his forearm that he suddenly quieted, a cry fading into a whimper. He looked down at his arms, littered with fragments of green glass and streaked with blood. He gently brushed the miniscule shards away, smeared crimson over his hands. He paused, staring at the furious red everywhere, on his arms, on the floor between his legs.

A sob crawled up his throat and he buried his face in his hands.

_Oh, God, what has he done to me?_

_No control—can’t stop him, oh God_

_I_ _can’t do this_

Grantaire’s attention drifted to the stinging pain in his arms. He _needed_ something, anything—

_What if I—_

His hand searched for a large enough shard—there—and sliced his right forearm so fast he barely felt it. Blood welled up immediately, running down to his wrist and off of his fingertips.

He dragged the glass over his skin again, slower, watching his skin split  so easily. A peaceful calm came over him as he focused all his attention on this, on watching his flesh as it opened and leaked red. It was a distraction, a way to get him out of his head, away from his filthy, agony ridden surroundings, and into a little world where all he had to do was concentrate on each little cut, and watch his blood spill.

After half an hour, both of his forearms were covered in gashes; some were little scratches, others were deep wounds with their edges apart. And as he came back to himself, his room, his reality, _his body,_  a hysterical laugh bubbled out of his mouth.

Oh, it was damn near poetic.

He saw the blue bruises scattered over his torso and legs, the red blood smeared and drying on his arms and underneath him, all against the stark white of his skin.

His own personal tricolor.

A mirthless, frantic laugh pierced the room as Grantaire wrapped his still bleeding arms around his legs, curled himself up.

_How proud Enjolras would be of me._

_Suffering for the cause._

_Painting myself the colors of_ _Liberté, égalité, fraternité._

_What a revolutionary am I._

_How proud Enjolras would be of me._

_And he will never know._

\---

And so Grantaire became a ghost.

Resigned to his fate, he cut contact with the Amis, stopped having brunch with Joly and Bossuet, stopped joining Jehan in the Tuileries Gardens, stopped going out to drink with Bahorel and Courfeyrac, stopped going to the Musain during the day.

He did not stop going to the meetings.

He could not stay away from Enjolras; that was unthinkable, and if Grantaire was anything, he was a glutton for punishment. He was sure Enjolras completely loathed him now, he was sure of it, but God Almighty, he could not stay away from the leader.

So he arrived at the meetings after they began and left just before they ended. And when Jehan or Joly or Bahorel or Courfeyrac tried to corner him, he darted away and slipped into the night, and when they came to his apartment during the day, pounding on the door and screaming at him to open up, he screamed louder, told them to fuck off.

They didn’t stop. They kept coming, standing outside the door, trying anything to get him to let them inside. They pushed notes under the door, apologies for being unkind, pleas for him to talk to them. Grantaire simply grabbed the papers, buried them in the hole under his floorboards.

It was easier this way, for Grantaire to remove himself. They had no need for him any longer. Their pleas were just an act, a way to make him feel better about being replaced.

They never came to his apartment after meetings. Grantaire was sure that was Malain’s doing. He wouldn’t want to be interrupted, of course.

_They do not care._

So Grantaire pretended that Joly’s muffled sobs didn’t hurt, that Jehan’s recitations of poetry didn’t make him cry, that Combeferre’s soft, patient voice didn’t make him stand and rest his head against the door so he could hear better, and maybe, just maybe, be lulled into a peaceful sleep. He pretended that Bahorel’s frantic cries, tinged with tears, did nothing. When Courfeyrac’s jovial voice promised drinks and girls if he’d only open the door, Grantaire almost obeyed, if only to punch the other man in the face because _how could he even suggest sex it’s disgusting_ ; and then he realized Courfeyrac had no idea.

And then, one day, Enjolras came to his door, knocking and imploring Grantaire to let him in.

“I’m sorry,” the blond said sincerely, the words sounding odd as they fell from his lips. “I should not have said those things to you. It was cruel and I…I was wrong. Please, Grantaire, we’re…we’re all worried about you. You haven’t spoken to any of us in nearly three weeks; you won’t let us see you…Grantaire,,, please, Grantaire, open the door.”

And Grantaire would have, if he had been able to move.

The night before, Malain had fucked him brutally, and choked him until he passed out, only to slap him awake and choke him again. His voice was gone and he couldn’t sit up, let alone get out of bed and open the door.

Oh God, he was so weak. 

He rarely ate; food would no longer stay down, and he had no appetite. He was weakening, getting feverish (the ever increasing deep cuts along his arms were swollen, red and wouldn’t heal); his strength was draining from his body.

He spent his days drinking, sleeping, or slumped against the wall, staring at nothing and pretending he was not _this_ , not a toy, not replaced, not some shell of something that was never quite human, something that tried, but never succeeded.

He ignored the never ending pounding on his door, the collection of voices constantly begging, pleading, crying.

He let his mind drift to what he knew were memories, but what felt more like fantasies, imaginings of being someone else in another life.

_Bahorel’s laugh, a deep, rumbling, rich sound, as he pinned who Grantaire used to be to the floor as they wrestled. “Best two out of three?”_

_Feuilly’s expression of concentration as he practiced painting a new technique on a page from Grantaire’s sketchbook. “You’re sure I can use this?”_

_Combeferre, so calm, so patient, so kind as he wrapped an arm around Grantaire’s waist and helped him home when the cynic was too intoxicated to stand on his own. “There is no need for apologies; I’m your friend.”_

_Jehan lounging in the sun, arms spread out, hair haloed under his head, a soft smile on his face. “Bask in the sun, it will do you good.”_

_Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta inviting him to dinner, staying up all night just talking with them. “You will always be welcome here, no matter what time of day.”_

_Courfeyrac laughing as he tripped over his own feet as Grantaire tried to teach him how to dance “It’s pointless; I’ll never be as graceful as you.”_

_Gavroche, charming little Gavroche, squinting and stumbling over words as Grantaire taught him how to read. “Why is reading important? I’ve gotten along fine without it.”_

And then Malain disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am a horrible person  
> but something big is gonna happen next chapter  
> like real big  
> PLOT TWIST BIG  
> AHAHAHAHAHAHAH
> 
> Chapter title from This Is Gospel by Panic! At The Disco a.k.a. There's A Good Reason There Are Tears All Over My Face, Asshole, It's Because You Write Songs About My Soul
> 
> (did you see what i did there)


	8. This Charade Is Never Going To Last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey friends  
> shit goes down in this chapter  
> DOOOWWWWNNNNNNN
> 
> Also, this chapter is dedicated to nightrose for being awesome and updating Si Cher in exchange for me updating this ahahahahahahahah

Grantaire was sick.

Well, that was a bit of an understatement.

Fever had consumed his body; he shook with a burning cold flooding his veins and a cold sweat covered his skin. Greenish-yellow scabs covered the swollen, red cuts on his arms and the ones on his torso Malain had given him.

He was tired; sleep escaped him most nights and when he did drift off, he was plagued by nightmares. His appetite had disappeared completely; he ate only when he physically could; nausea overwhelmed him more often than not. It hurt just to breathe, and still, after downing a bottle or two,  he dragged himself to the Musain for every meeting and ignored the questions the Amis asked him, and somehow managed to escape their grasps when they cornered him and demanded Joly and Combeferre examine him.

It was for the best, he kept telling himself. It would make it easier on them when he finally died.

He was going to die, he was sure of it. This was going to kill him, quickly, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. He could feel his body slowly shutting down. It should’ve scared him; it didn’t. The sooner, the better, as far as Grantaire was concerned.

It was a Monday evening when Grantaire heard of Malain’s absence. He entered the Musain as the meeting began, gingerly seated himself at the nearest empty table and fought the fatigue telling him to slump forward and close his eyes.

Enjolras was standing in the center of the room, addressing the group. Grantaire was so exhausted he could barely focus enough to listen; Enjolras’ voice was faint, muffled in Grantaire’s ears.

“…Malain is out of Paris this week until Saturday…”

Grantaire froze and he could’ve sworn he felt his heart stop.

The meeting continued but Grantaire remained as he was, shock and confusion running through him. He heard nothing of what the Amis were saying, just the brief mentions they made of Malain.

“…Malain would be well-suited for this task, shame he’s not here…”

“…Malain would adore this! I’ll have to show it to him when returns…”

“…Malain’s advice is certainly needed…”

_Malain, Malain, Malain._

_Now’s your chance._

_He can’t punish you._

_Tell them._

_Tell them tonight._

_Now’s your chance._

Before Grantaire could stop himself, his mouth opened and words came spilling out.

“Malain, Malain, Malain, what would we do without Malain? Pillar of our group, our savior. Do you know that he fucks me?” Grantaire stood shakily, his hands finding support on the wall behind him. “He does. After every meeting, he follows me home and holds me down and fucks me. And the entire time, I’m bleeding and screaming and begging him to stop and he won’t, he won’t stop, he won’t stop fucking me.”

A hysterical laugh bubbled up his throat as he continued, not seeing the horror suddenly covering his friends’ faces. “But no matter. It’s of no importance. The cause is what’s most important, and Malain is vital to the cause, unlike me. I deserve this. I have no use, no purpose. I believe in nothing, therefore I am nothing. Nothing but a worthless drunkard, put on this wretched earth to be used by those who are better than I will ever be.”

“Enjolras,” he slurred, his glazed, teary eyes finding the blond man. “You—you are always speaking of sacrifices and how we all must pay a price. This is mine, this is what I am giving to your cause. It is my patriotic duty. We all have a role to play, the Chief, the Center, the Guide, and so on. My duty is simple; I am the Republic’s whore, Revolution’s harlot, Patria’s prostitute.”

Grantaire moved forward, his legs shaky and barely supporting him as he approached Enjolras. “Am I worthy now?” he asked, his voice cracking. “You are always saying we must pay the price, and I have paid mine. Is it enough, Enjolras?” I have so little to give; this is all I have left. Is it enough?” Grantaire collapsed to his knees when he reached the younger man and kept himself upright by clinging to Enjolras’ legs. “Enjolras, please tell me it is enough,” he begged, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I cannot take much more of this. Please, Enjolras, please, please, please…”

Enjolras’ horrified, tearstained face was the last thing Grantaire saw before his world went black.

\---

_“Oh, God, catch his head!”_

_“Bahorel, take his legs!”_

_“Where’s the closest hospital?”_

_“We have to go, now!”_

_“Oh, God, Grantaire…”_

_“Why didn’t he tell us?!”_

_“Please don’t die, please, please, Grantaire, don’t die…”_

_“Grantaire, can you hear us? Grantaire?”_

_“Don’t leave me, please!”_

_“Grantaire!”_

\---

Enjolras practically tripped over his own feet as he ran up the stairs to where Combeferre and Joly had taken Grantaire once they’d arrived at the hospital. His heart was pounding deafeningly loud in his ears, and his entire body was trembling.

“Enjolras?”

Combeferre and Joly were coming down the hall towards him. Enjolras tried to meet them halfway, but his legs gave out beneath him.

“Shit,” Combeferre hissed, running to catch the blonde man. “Joly, bring that chair over here.”

Once Enjolras was seated, Joly grabbed two more chairs for himself and Combeferre.

“Combeferre, is he alive? Please, Combeferre, please tell me, is he alive?” Enjolras begged, his voice as shaky as his hands. “Combeferre…”

“Enjolras, you must calm yourself,” Combeferre said patiently, one of his hands coming to rest on Enjolras’ knee.

The younger man nodded and brought his hands up to cover his mouth, tears streaming down his face. After a few moments, he lifted his head and looked at Combeferre.

“He’s alive,” Combeferre said immediately, and Enjolras visibly deflated with a sigh. “He’s still unconscious but he’s alive.”

Enjolras nodded and blinked rapidly as he wiped the tears away from his face. “It is true, what he said?”

There was a pause before Joly spoke, “He is very badly injured, Enjolras. There’s infection, he’s malnourished—“

“Is it true?” Enjolras demanded, his voice hardened.

Joly swallowed before continuing, his own eyes filling with tears. “There’s…tearing and scarring. He’s been violated, more than—“ Joly’s breath caught in his throat. “More than once. Much more than once.”

Enjolras closed his eyes and choked back a sob. “Oh, God…”

“There’s bruising on his neck and torso, rope burn on his wrists, knees, and ankles, and numerous scars and lacerations on his chest and back,” Joly said, his voice numb as he tried to keep his composure. “There are also cuts along his forearms that look to be…self-inflicted.”

Enjolras was sobbing openly now, his face buried in his hands.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre started, his own voice starting to shake. “It is not likely—his chances are not very good.”

Enjolras’ only response was to cry harder.

After a few minutes, Enjolras sniffled and raised his head to look at the two medical students. “I’m calling an emergency meeting, tomorrow evening, usual time, at the Musain. Just the eight of us,” He said, standing from the chair. “Please let the others know.”

Combeferre and Joly nodded their agreement and the Guide reached out to grab Enjolras’ elbow.

“I know we have never spoken of God or religion,” he murmured. “But perhaps a few prayers would be of help. It can do no harm, and Grantaire needs everything we can give him.”

Enjolras nodded and closed his eyes as Combeferre embraced him. “Rest, Enjolras,” the older man whispered. “You need rest.”

“You, as well,” Enjolras replied.

The two broke and Enjolras exited into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmmm gotta love that plot advancement   
> also this is very much the turning point of the fic; POV's gonna change from exclusively R's view to mostly the Amis view, at least for the next couple chapters, as well as the general subject matter of the fic. 
> 
> Chapter title from Coppertone by The Academy Is (Was...owwwww)


	9. I Think We Have An Emergency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends   
> new chapter yaaay  
> i'm super secretive in this one  
> *whispers* what am i planning??????????????

The next night, as Les Amis entered the Musain, the room was eerily quiet. They were all silent; the only sounds they made were sniffles and sobs.

Bahorel, curled up on the floor in one of the far corners, had his face buried in his hands, trying to muffle the loud, shuddering sobs that wracked his body. Feuilly and Jehan were sitting next to him, futilely attempting to comfort him, while tears streamed down their own faces.

Joly was slumped over, his elbows resting on his knees, with his fingers threaded through his hair as Bossuet ran a hand along his back reassuringly.

Sat at the large center table were Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras. Courfeyrac was making a valiant effort at pretending that he wasn’t crying, whereas Combeferre wasn’t even trying.

Enjolras was stoic, his jaw set, his eyes staring at the wall, trying to think of something to say.

“This is my fault,” Bahorel croaked, lifting his head. “I should’ve known he wasn’t well when he stopped coming to brawls.”

“I shouldn’t have pushed so hard.”

“I should’ve pushed harder.”

“I should’ve told him that he could talk to me.”

“I shouldn’t have scolded him so much.”

“Stop,” Combeferre said, sniffling. “If there is any blame to be placed, I take it.”

Everyone turned to look at the Guide, confusion written on their faces.

“Grantaire came to me a week after Malain first joined our group. His shoulder was dislocated, and when he removed his shirt, I saw bruises on his wrists and neck.” Combeferre sighed, his eyes slipping closed as more tears fell. “He told me he was in an alley fight. I-I didn’t believe him but he begged me not to push the issue. So, I let him be. I convinced myself that whatever was wrong, he could handle it himself, that if he needed help, he’d ask for it.”

Combeferre choked on a sob. “And now, he’s dying and it’s my fault. He’s going to die because I was too scared to help him.”

As Combeferre spoke, Enjolras slowly rose from his seat across from him. “You knew?” he asked, his voice steely cold.

Combeferre looked up through his tears. “Enjolras, I didn’t know what to do, I—“

Enjolras lunged forward, slamming into Combeferre and sending both of them to the floor.

“You fucking knew, and you did nothing?!” Enjolras screamed, punching Combeferre viciously. Blood poured out of Combeferre’s mouth and Enjolras just kept hitting him.

“Enjolras, stop!”

“Enjolras!”

“How could you?!” the blond shrieked, barely feeling the hands trying to pull him away from Combeferre. “You bastard, how could you?!”

“Enjolras, you’re going to kill him!”

“Stop!”

It took Bahorel, Feuilly, and Bossuet to pull Enjolras off Combeferre. The Guide spluttered and coughed, sending droplets of blood through the air as he turned onto his side. Crimson pooled on the floor under his head as it trickled from his mouth and nose.

Joly and Courfeyrac rushed to Combeferre, helping the injured man sit up, and pressed handkerchiefs to his face, while the others restrained their still screaming leader. The sounds coming from Enjolras’ mouth were no longer words, just agonized wails that pierced the air.

It took nearly an hour for the room to fall silent again.

Combeferre was fiddling with the blood-stained handkerchief in his hands; Enjolras was slumped forward, hands tangled in his long curls, his breaths still shuddering occasionally.

The air was tense; the rest of the Amis didn’t know what to say, who to comfort, what to do.

Enjolras spoke, “I’m sorry, Combeferre,” the apology sincere.

Combeferre’s head snapped up. “No, my friend,” he sighed, his voice weak and tired. “There is no need to apologize. I deserved that.”

Enjolras stood and crossed the room to sit next to his friend. “I should not have attacked you. It was not an...I’m sorry.”

Combeferre clasped Enjolras’ hand. “You are forgiven, Enjolras. I do not expect you, any of you, to forgive me.”

Before Enjolras could respond, Courfeyrac spoke up. “You are not solely to blame, Combeferre. We all share the fault equally. We all saw him deteriorate and did not help as best we could, for whatever reasons each of us had. We are all to blame. We have been very poor friends. Now is not the time to pass around blame; we must accept that each of us has been terrible, that is this on all our heads, and now we must do all that we can to help Grantaire, and pray that we are not too late.” Courfeyrac’s voice shook as he finished. “Now, Enjolras, what is the purpose of this meeting?”

\---

“Enjolras, are you mad?! You can’t possibly be suggesting—“

“Well, what do you propose we do, Bahorel? Do you think the courts will bring Malain to full justice?”

“Enjolras, I want Malain to be fully punished just as you do, but this is extreme.”

“I agree with Enjolras; the courts will not help Grantaire. They will use his temperament against him; demonize him for being a drunk, and praise Malain. Much like we’ve been doing.”

“I, too, agree with Enjolras. Malain deserves this. Who knows how many others have endured what Grantaire has at the hands of this monster? And how many more will if we don’t do this?”

“Thank you, Jehan, Combeferre. And the rest of you? Joly? Bossuet?”

“I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t seek vengeance; it’s because of us that this went on so long.”

“Bossuet?”

“Do you even have a plan for this, Enjolras?”

“I do. I wish to wait until I know you are all with me before I share the details.”

“Very well. I’ll join you.”

“And you three?”

“I’ll join.”

“And I.”

“Bahorel?”

“If you feel this is the only way for justice to prevail, then, yes. I’m with you. Now, what’s this plan?”

“Thank you, Bahorel. Combeferre, you have a connection to the Patron-Minette, yes?”

 “I do, Gavroche’s sister."

“Can you arrange a meeting with her so that I may inquire about enlisting one of their members’ services?”

“Yes, I can.”

“Good. Now, my plan…”

\---

About an hour later, the backroom of the Musain was almost empty. Only Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac remained. They were silent, passing a bottle between them.

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac began, swallowing a mouthful of wine. “May I ask you a question?”

Enjolras nodded as Courfeyrac passed the bottle to him.

“Why this sudden deep interest in Grantaire’s honor? Forgive me, but before this travesty, you never spared Grantaire a second glance. I, for one, was thoroughly convinced you disdained the man, and yet, now you are demanding we take drastic actions against his assailant. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you feel for the man, more than simply as a citizen of France or a comrade. What has changed within you, Enjolras?”

The blond sighed and set the bottle in his hand on the table. “And you’d be correct, Courfeyrac,” he murmured, his voice low.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac shared a quick, surprised look before Enjolras started speaking again.

“For many months, I’ve been conflicted over my feelings for Grantaire. I’ve never met one who infuriates me as he does…and yet, I’ve never met another person who captivates me as he does.” Enjolras slumped forward, folding his arms, and rested his head on them. “I do not…I’ve never had any of these feelings before and I was frightened. I was unsure how to react, how I should treat him…so I pushed him away. I said horrible things to him because I was terrified to show him how I felt.”

Enjolras raised his arms and buried his face in his hands. “And now, he’s near death because I was too afraid to be honest with him, and—“He cut himself off with a sob. “I can’t lose him, I can’t, I can’t lose him…”

\---

Joly sobbed into the dark skin of Musichetta’s shoulder, tiny cries falling from his mouth. Her small hands curled around his head, pulling him closer as they lay on their large bed.

Bossuet curled himself around Joly’s back, encompassing the smaller man. He threw an arm over his lovers, tangled his fingers in Musichetta’s dark curls, trying to give her some comfort even as Joly cried and shook between them.

Her teary, dark blue eyes met Bossuet’s and she brought a hand up to wrap around his face, her thumb stroking over his cheekbone.

She buried her face in Joly’s hair, her tears wetting the mousy brown locks. The smaller boy was still crying, unintelligible words spilling from his lips. Bossuet and Musichetta could understand only a few syllables.

“…no…my…fault…die…my…fault…”

\---

Jehan, Bahorel, and Feuilly stood against the outer wall of the Musain, puffing at cigarettes the fighter had hastily rolled with shaking hands.

“I…” Bahorel started, chewing on his lip nervously. “I do not wish to be alone tonight but…I believe if I arrived at Marguerite’s with the sole intention of bawling into her bosoms, she would not laugh and be pleased.” He took a final drag and stubbed the butt out under his boot. “Perhaps, Jehan, you would not be adverse to some company tonight?”

Jehan smiled softly and took Bahorel’s arm gently. “Of course, it’s no trouble. I must say, I’d rather not be alone tonight as well. Feuilly, will you join us?”

The tan, ginger haired man paused. “You have enough room for the three of us?”

Jehan nodded. “My apartment is quite spacious; the three of us will be comfortable.” He offered his free arm to the lanky worker, who took it, and the three started off towards Jehan’s apartment.

\---

The next evening, after the rest of Les Amis had left, Combeferre ushered Éponine into the backroom and guided her to the empty seat next to Enjolras.

“Enjolras, this is Mademoiselle Éponine, young Gavroche’s sister,” Combeferre introduced.

The girl blushed at the formal title. “’M not a mad’moiselle, M’sieur—“

Combeferre brought one of her cold, reddened hands up to his lips to press a light kiss to the rough skin, “Hush, you,” he grinned playfully, drawing an identical smile to her lips. “Now, I shall ask Madame Houcheloup about a cup of tea for you; your hands are frighteningly cold.”

Éponine opened her mouth to protest, but Combeferre stopped her with a gentle squeeze of her hand. “It’s no trouble, _cher_ , really.”

Once the medical student had left the room, Éponine turned to the blond leader. “M’sieur Combeferre said you have a favor to ask of me?”

“I do,” Enjolras confirmed. “You are acquainted with the Patron-Minette, am I correct?”

Éponine paused, then nodded slowly. “I know them, they work with my father, but, pardon me, M’sieur, but what business would a man such as you have with them?”

“I expected you to ask that question,” Enjolras smiled slightly before continuing. “A member of our group has been…assaulted by a man that goes by Malain.”

Éponine froze at the mention of the newcomer’s name.

“You know the man?” Enjolras asked, leaning forward.

The girl shook her head jerkily. “N-no, M’sieur, I don’t, but I have heard stories. He is a vicious man. If I may ask, who did he hurt?”

“A man named Grantaire.”

“Grantaire?” Éponine asked, shock covering her features. Before she could speak again, Combeferre returned, a cup of tea in his hands. She turned to face him. “You did not tell me Grantaire was the one attacked.”

Combeferre paused as he reached the table. “I did not know you were acquainted with him.”

Éponine nodded and took the cup from Combeferre’s hands. “When he first came to Paris, he did work for my father. Not for very long, only a few months, but we met and talked often.” She smiled and took a small sip of tea. “He was very kind, and funny.”

Her eyes came up to meet Enjolras’. “But he is injured?”

Enjolras nodded, his jaw clenching as the extent of Grantaire’s injuries flooded his thoughts. “Very badly.”

“What I can do to help you, M’sieur?”

“I need you to arrange a meeting with Montparnasse for me. I require his services.”

Éponine shifted slightly in her chair. “You are planning…revenge?”

Enjolras nodded again.

Éponine finished her tea quickly, hoping the men wouldn’t notice her hands shaking. “Alright,” she said, after a few moments. “I’ll arrange it. You’ll have the place and time by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras said, reaching forward and grasping her hand gently. “Thank you.”

A smile pulled at the corners of Éponine’s mouth and she nodded. “Of course, M’sieur.”

\---

Enjolras stood at the center table, poring over a map that centered on the Seine. Combeferre and Éponine were still in the room, conversing quietly and Enjolras was politely trying to ignore them.

“Your eye looks sore, Alain,” the girl murmured, her hand coming up to gently touch the bruised and swollen skin.

Combeferre shook his head slightly. “Only a little, _ma belle_.”

Éponine blushed at the term of endearment. “Who did this to you?”

Combeferre saw Enjolras tense out of the corner of his eye before he spoke. “It is of no importance. It was deserved. Now,” Combeferre said before Éponine could disagree. “Do you have a place to sleep tonight?”

Éponine said nothing, just nervously bit her lip.

Combeferre, to his credit, didn’t sigh disapprovingly, or look at her with pity, just reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins.

“No, Alain, no, I can’t—“

“You can,” Combeferre said reassuringly. “I want you to be warm tonight.”

Éponine smiled and cupped Combeferre’s cheek. “You are too kind, M’sieur Alain, I do not deserve such kindness.”

Combeferre closed his eyes and pressed a light kiss to Éponine’s palm. “No, _ma belle_ , it is I that does not deserve kindness.”

\---

Enjolras fidgeted in his seat, his eyes searching the room anxiously. Gavroche had entered the Musain earlier that day, holding a small piece of paper with the name of a pub Enjolras knew was frequented by those who lived in Paris’ seedy underbelly, as well as a meeting time.

The note also said to come alone.

So there Enjolras was, nervously drinking a glass of wine and hoping he wouldn’t have to use the small handgun Combeferre had insisted he bring with him.

“Ah, there is the precious, golden leader.”

 Enjolras nearly jumped out of his seat at the sudden voice in his ear. He cleared his throat as a young man, impeccably dressed, sat down across from him. “Montparnasse, I assume?”

 The man, ( _boy, really_ ), grinned wolfishly and curled his fingers around the bottle of wine resting on the table before him. “At your service,” he said, throwing his head back and drinking quickly. “Now, what can I do for you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i just create a new ot3?
> 
> soooo what do you think E wants with 'Parnasse?  
> what's his plan?  
> what's going on with the Seine?  
> what secrets is he hiding in that hair of his?  
> who do you want to hug the most?  
> why am i asking so many questions?
> 
> Chapter title from Emergency by Paramore.


	10. Wake Up Already, Wake Up Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> small chapter long time since update i apologize i suck
> 
> but good things will happen next chapter
> 
> really good things

Montparnasse sighed and leaned back in the rickety, wooden chair.

“You are serious about this,” he stated, looking at Enjolras gravely.

“I am.”

“Do you believe you and your friends are capable of such a thing?” Montparnasse sneered, a smirk playing at his lips. “This is not a simple game, you know. And you are but a schoolboy.”

“And you are still yet a child,” Enjolras returned, his eyes narrowed.

Montparnasse’s eyebrows shot up and he smiled. “That is true.” He paused for a moment, thinking, then leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “And for me? What will I receive in return for performing this favor?”

“We are prepared to give you recompense.”

“How much?”

“Name your price.”

Montparnasse grinned. “Fifty thousand francs.”

“Done.”

The boy’s face darkened. “Filthy rich bastards, the lot of you. The task is not worth such a sum.”

“If you ask it, we will pay it.”

Montparnasse studied the leader carefully. “You hate this man.”

He watched the blond’s jaw clench and his hands curl into fists. “Yes.”

“Very well,” Montparnasse said after a minute of silence. “I’ll assist you.”

\---

 And so the pieces fell into place. The Amis moved quickly, securing the supplies they would need, reviewing every step of Enjolras’ plan over and over, building contingency plans should anything go wrong, and preparing themselves for what was going to happen in just a few days.

And, of course, waiting for Grantaire to wake up.

Ideally, he wouldn’t wake before Malain returned.

“I don’t believe he will, Enjolras,” Combeferre said, in the dimly lit back room, their group sitting around the large center table.

“He’s endured much trauma,” Joly added. “His body needs time to recover, and that will happen faster if he’s unconscious.”

“Can he hear us? If we speak to him, will he hear us?” Enjolras asked, his fingers nervously tapping out a rhythm on the table.

“It’s possible,” Combeferre nodded. “It would help, I’m sure, if he can hear us, to know that he’s not alone.”

They fell into shifts easily, making sure that Grantaire was never left alone, even overnight. Combeferre and Joly, with their status as medical students, were the only ones permitted to sleep there, and so they alternated each night. During the day, the others came, stayed with Grantaire for as long as they could.

And they waited for Malain.

\---

Grantaire was in Hell, he was sure of it.

It was black where he was, no light anywhere, just black.

And Malain was there. His voice was loud and booming, screaming at him, telling him he was disgusting, just a toy to fuck.

And he couldn’t escape, there was no way to leave, there was just emptiness.

He was terrified.

He could hear his friends’ voices, vague and muffled, as if he were hearing them through a thin wall. They were there, somewhere above him, sometimes talking to each other, sometimes talking to him. He couldn’t respond, no matter how hard he tried. So he listened, in a desperate attempt to drown Malain’s voice.

_“You believe he can hear us?”_

_“It’s possible. I like to think he can.”_

Even with their voices muffled, Grantaire could differentiate between his friends’ voices, the difference in their timbres, their inflections, gave away their identities.

Jehan read poetry to him, as he expected, words, dripping with love, that would’ve tugged at all the right strings if he’d been awake and drunk.

_“Did you enjoy that one, Grantaire? I do hope my selections are not boring you. I’ve tried to choose ones I thought you would like…I suppose you’ll tell me when you awake, yes?”_

He heard Jehan pause and sigh, a soft, shuddery sound.

Don’t cry, Jehan, please don’t cry, not over me.

‘Why would he cry over you?’ Malain hissed. ‘You’re worthless.’

_“I miss you, Grantaire. I’m so sorry for reprimanding you like a child when you were simply trying to get help. I-I failed you, as a friend, and as a fellow human. I’m so sorry, ‘Aire.”_

‘He’s lying; he’s not sorry.’

Bahorel just cried when he visited. Grantaire heard a tiny whimper before a storm of gasping sobs flooded his ears. Joly escorted the larger man out after a while, brought him out to the hall to help calm him down.

The student returned some time after; Grantaire could hear him sniffling as he changed Grantaire’s bandages.

_“You’ll have to pardon Bahorel, ‘Aire, he’s not taking this situation very well. Frankly, none of us are. Grantaire, I…I don’t know if you can hear me, but if you can…please know that I am truly remorseful for my actions. I should’ve realized that you were in trouble, I should’ve been kinder, I…”_

Grantaire heard Joly sigh as the younger man sat down next to him on the bed.

‘Joly can’t stand you. You depress him, drown his gaiety with your melancholy.’ Malain growled.

_“It doesn’t matter what I should’ve done, the point is, I didn’t do it. I’m not asking for your forgiveness, ‘Aire, just…”_

Grantaire listened as Joly’s voice cracked, emotion overcoming him as he cried. Grantaire’s heart ached at the sound. He wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around Joly, tell him over and over that he didn’t need to be forgiven or absolved, none of them did, that all of this was Grantaire’s own fault.  He was here, in this hell, because of what he, himself, did. He put himself in this place. It was where he belonged.

And Grantaire’s body wouldn’t respond, no matter how hard he tried. He couldn’t sit up, or move his arms, or speak, or even open his eyes.

‘Finally, you understand; you don’t belong with them.’

_“Bossuet and Courfeyrac are coming to visit later this evening; perhaps they’ll raise your spirits.”_

The two men were indeed cheerful when they arrived. They opted to inform Grantaire of what their group had been doing in his absence.

 _“Prouvaire’s been insisting we all see that play he won’t stop prattling on about,_ Hernani, _I believe it’s called.”_ Grantaire heard Bossuet say, a grin coloring the man’s tone. _“Joly and I joined him in attendance last night. Joly enjoyed it, but I found it rather…predictable.”_

 _“I agree,”_ Courfeyrac laughed, the bright sound flooding Grantaire’s head, attempting to illuminate the darkness. _“It was quite dull; my own affairs are far more scandalous and fascinating.”_

Bossuet responded with a chuckle of his own. _“Nothing is more scandalous than your affairs, Courfeyrac.”_

_“While we’re on the subject of scandal, you’ll not believe what Marguerite said when she met Antoinette…”_

‘They are wasting their time with you.’

\---

It was dark when Enjolras visited Grantaire. Combeferre was in the middle of changing Grantaire’s bandages when the leader entered.

“Good evening, Enjolras,” Combeferre said as he noticed the other man lingering in the doorway. “Have you come to talk to Grantaire?”

Enjolras nodded. “If he can hear me.”

“I think he can. I’ve noticed his eyes flickering when we speak to him. I think he’s aware of us.” He quickly finished with Grantaire’s bandages and walked over to Enjolras.

“Talk to him,” he murmured, resting a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “It can’t do any harm.”

He exited the room and Enjolras could barely breathe. He slowly walked forward and sat in the chair next to Grantaire’s bed.

“Grantaire,” He started after sitting in silence for a few minutes. “I’ve come to apologize and to…confess something.”

Enjolras closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. “I have treated you deplorably, with contempt that was far too much for your transgressions. I have been unnecessarily cruel to you and I am…” Enjolras swallowed and clenched his eyes shut. “I am beyond remorseful for these actions. I cannot express how sorry I am for hurting you, repeatedly, for the time that we have known each other. Truthfully, they were words said in anger, frustration, when I failed to control my emotions. They had no meaning, no truth behind them.”

A sob bubbled up Enjolras’ throat and tiny tears spilled down his cheeks. “Grantaire, my feelings towards you are the opposite of my words. I have never loathed you, or disdained you, or even merely disliked you.”

Enjolras’ eyes opened and he looked at Grantaire’s sleeping face. “Grantaire, I…I believe I love you. No, I—I _know_. I am in love with you, Grantaire. I was so frightened of my feelings for you, I’d never felt such things before, and I was terrified. I thought that perhaps pushing you away would cause them to cease, or at least ease my longings. I never imagined that you would feel the same about me.”

Enjolras leaned forward and took Grantaire’s hand. “But in my attempts to shield myself, I injured you. While it wasn’t my intention, I still hurt you and I am so…so…”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras whimpered, tears flowing down his face in streams. “Please, you must survive this, please…I love you.”

\---

_“…I love you.”_

And Grantaire knew with certainty he was in Hell, because it was only in Hell that this would happen. Only in Hell would Grantaire be trapped, forced to listen to the only man he would follow to the ends of the earth confess such a thing, and know there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t wake up, clutch Enjolras to his chest, or kiss him, or somehow prove that this was real, it was happening.

And Malain was laughing.

‘Oh, my, Enjolras is quite convincing, isn’t he? I suppose that’s what drew you to him in the first place. That, and your own filthy, perverted desires. He is lying to you, Grantaire. It is all a lie.’

But Grantaire knew that already.

\---

Friday evening, the Amis gathered in the Musain, once again going over the plan for when Malain returned the next day.

“Alright, now, let’s review positions. Bahorel?”

“Across from Malain’s apartment with Gavroche.”

“Prouvaire and Joly?”

“Down the street with a carriage and our supplies.”

“Combeferre?”

“Two streets over, waiting for Courfeyrac.”

“Courfeyrac?”

“Procuring a second carriage.”

“Feuilly?”

“Acquiring the third carriage and bringing it to the Musain.”

“And Bossuet?”

“Right here with you, awaiting Bahorel’s message.”

A smile curled Enjolras’ lips. “We’re ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh you guyyyyyys
> 
> revenge is happening next chapter
> 
> ARE YOU EXCITED?????????????
> 
> BECAUSE I AM
> 
> also i could not resist the 'bedside love confession' cliche
> 
> i just couldn't ugh these cheesy little squishy boys
> 
> Chapter title from Chasm by Flyleaf.


	11. The Orchestra Of Flesh And Bone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so sorry oh my god
> 
> i have no excuse other than my mental illnesses just totally kicked my butt for like 4 months straight
> 
> hopefully this chapter will make up for it???
> 
> ***WARNING***
> 
> ok so this chapter contains very graphic depictions of torture and a character death. i'm guessing that it's not gonna be too much for you lovely readers, considering the content of previous chapters, but if it is, just let me know, and i'll give you a nice little gore free summary
> 
> EDIT: As per a reader's request, I'm going to give a little detail as to the types of torture in this chapter. There's torture involving fingernails, compound fractures, knees, tongue, ribs, and genitals.

It was a little after noon when Gavroche, followed by Feuilly, ran into the Musain, a small piece of paper clutched in his hand.

“From Bahorel,” he panted, holding the paper up to Enjolras.

The leader passed him a cup of water and quickly read the note.

 

_‘Malain arrived: 11:20_

_C and C left: 11:45_

_Will stall until word given”_

 

He turned the paper over and quickly jotted down a response. “Malain arrived at twenty after eleven,” he murmured, just loud enough for Bossuet and Feuilly to hear. “Combeferre and Courfeyrac left the city around a quarter to noon, which means they’ll reach the forest by one o’clock.”

“We should leave no later than three o’clock,” Feuilly chimed in, slumping into a chair next to Bossuet. “We’ll reach the forest around four o’clock then.”

“And the others should leave no earlier than four, but not later than six,” Bossuet added. “Do you think Bahorel can stall for that long?”

“He’ll have to, that time window is the best chance we have at getting them out of the city without raising any suspicion,” Enjolras replied, quickly scribbling a response to Bahorel on another scrap of paper. He handed to Gavroche and the gamin was out the door.

The blond sighed and deposited himself into the seat next to Feuilly. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the heels of his hands.

“Enjolras, may I ask you something?”

The leader lifted his head. “Of course, Feuilly.”

The worker paused for a moment before starting, “From what I understand, you will be taking the most active role tonight?”

Enjolras nodded.

“Are you prepared for the damage that tonight may have on you?”

“What is your meaning?”

What we have planned is not a simple thing, Enjolras. It is something serious, and I know not how to word it, but these kinds of things damage a person, not outside, but inside.”

‘He has a point, Enjolras,” Bossuet added. “There are consequences this may have on your mind. I know that at this point, there is no turning back, but…” He trailed off, sighing.

“We don’t wish to see you become a victim as well,” Feuilly said quietly.

Enjolras was silently for a few moments before he spoke. “My friends, I appreciate your concerns more than I can voice. I am aware of the ramifications that tonight may have, and yes, I am prepared to face them. I cannot think of myself in this situation, my peace of mind is but a small price to pay when I think of what Grantaire as endured, and perhaps what many others have endured at the hands of Malain. 

He inhaled sharply, suddenly feeling his throat closing. “I cannot sit back and let him continue. It would haunt me more than tonight ever could.

\---

“He’s waking.”

Malain’s eyes opened slowly, groans falling from his mouth as he returned to consciousness.

“What the devil…” he muttered, surveying his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was his state of dress, clad only in his underpants. He was bound, he noticed next, his bare back pressed uncomfortably against the rough bark of a tree. There was a rope tied tightly around his torso, digging into the soft flesh of his underarms. Another rope restrained his arms at the elbow, preventing him from lifting and using his hands. Another rope, tied around his ankles, bound him to the tree in a third way, and he knew there was no possible way he could escape.

He looked up, blinking trying to see his captors. There were lanterns hanging from the surrounding trees, and some on the ground, but all he could see were shadowy figures standing outside of the light.

“Who’s there?” He called, forcing his voice to remain steady. “I’ll have your skin for this!”

Malain squinted, trying to make out any distinguishing features of the shadows. After a few moments, it dawned on him.

“Oh, what’s this, boys?” He grinned. “A late initiation of sorts?”

Only silence answered him.

He chuckled nervously, and inhaled slowly, trying to rid himself of the sudden feeling of dread rooting itself in his stomach. “Shall we get this over with then?”

That statement provoked action, in the form of a stone-faced Bahorel stepping forward, his hands curled into fists. There was no hesitation before the brawler slammed his fist into Malain’s nose, swiftly and precisely.

A sick crunch and a cry broke the silence. Bahorel pulled his arm back, only to deliver another blow, and another, and another, each harder than the one previous.  When Bahorel finally stepped back, there was blood smeared over both his hands, and Malain’s face was soaked in crimson.

“What,” Malain coughed, spitting blood and teeth out at the forest floor. “What is the meaning of this, boys?”

He received an answer in the form of Jean Prouvaire with a knife held in his hands.

The poet reached out and wrapped his fingers tightly around one of Malain’s hands, immobilizing his digits.

“Jehan, come now,” Malain said, his voice sickly sweet. “Jehan, te—“

A shriek resounded as Jehan stabbed the blade under the thumbnail, and with a flick of his wrist, quickly and effectively, detached it from the finger. He continued, removing nail after nail, paying no mind to the blood that slicked the knife, making it difficult to hold or the constant scream coming from Malain’s throat.

When he finished, he stepped back and looked at Malain, at his blood and tear stained face, and a small smile curled his lips.

Bossuet approached next, and wasted no time in breaking Malain’s still gushing fingers, snapping the bones like twigs, one after another, after another, after another.

“Please,” Malain gasped when Bossuet had finished. “I don’t understand, I thought…”

As Combeferre approached him, Malain panicked, realizing this wasn’t going to stop.

“Combeferre,” He sputtered, swallowing blood. “Please, Combeferre, tell me what is the meaning of this, I—“

Combeferre reached out and the next second, a gruesome crack and scream echoed in the forest. Combeferre withdrew, only to make sure the bone had broken through the skin.

It had, the bone protruded in a mess of blood and gore, and Combeferre delivered the same treatment to the other arm.

And then, black.

\---

Malain gasped as he felt cold water drenching him, bringing him back to consciousness. He coughed and spat and gasped for breath and wished for this to end.

“Come now, boys, this is quite enough, you’ve had your fun.” He sighed, hoping his pleas would have some effect, and yet knowing they would have none.

As Malain waited for the next assault, he finally understood. A rasping laugh made its way from his throat.

“Oh, I see, he told you, didn’t he?” Malain asked, his bloodstained lips curling into a sick grin. “That little harlot Grantaire told you all about our sordid affair, didn’t he?”

Malain laughed, loud and grating. “I really should’ve known that he’d boast about it, a homely cur such as he cavorting with the likes of myself. It was to be expected, I suppose.”

He would’ve continued, if Joly hadn’t chosen that moment to smash a hammer into his left knee, repeatedly.  “Vile monstrosity,” the younger man hissed, crushing the other joint as well.

The rope tied around Malain’s torso now bore all his weight and burned his skin painfully. “Oh, Joly,” he groaned, breathing slowly to combat the pain in almost every part of his body. “You may insult me all you wish, but it will do nothing to my pride. Your Grantaire was great, and it’s a damn shame that it had to come to this, that he couldn’t keep his filthy, whore mouth shut about a good thing.

“In all truth, who would take him as a lover? With such a face as his? No, it was a public service what I did for him. A charity, if you will. Out of the kindness of my heart. And how does he repay me?”

Malain spat, “Ah, yes, this is a shame, but he was the best I’ve had, so I suppose, this is worth it. What a good fuck he was, truly, a good fuck—“

“That’s it,” Courfeyrac growled, grabbing the knife and forcing Malain’s mouth open.

“Wait!” Enjolras commanded, shooting forward to stop Courfeyrac.

“I won’t listen to this filth any longer, Enjolras.”

“Just wait.” Enjolras repeated. “How many?”

Malain paused. “How many what?”

Enjolras snatched the blade from Courfeyrac’s hand and drove into one of Malain’s knees.  “How many did you violate?” he demanded over Malain’s screams.

“Does it matter?!” He cried.

Enjolras pulled out the knife and plunged it into the other knee. “Yes, it does. Now, how many?”

Malain whimpered and sagged, blood dripping from the wounds on his torso from the rope. “I’m not sure.”

“Don’t,” Enjolras hissed. “Don’t. How many?”

Malain shook his head, “Twenty, thirty, forty at the most.” He raised his head and glared at Enjolras. “Are you pleased now?"

Enjolras gave no answer,just gave the knife back to Courfeyrac, who simply yanked Malain’s jaw open and thrust in the knife. He made short work in removing his tongue, and when he finished, he pushed Malain’s head forward, allowing the blood to flow out and pool at Malain’s feet.

“I’m not done with you,” Enjolras breathed,both he and Courfeyrac stepping back as Feuilly approached, armed with the hammer, and slamming it against Malain’s ribs.

The sickening sound of bones shattering filled the clearing, but Malain’s throat was too raw to scream. All that fell from his lips were harsh exhales and blood.

When Malain’s chest was nearly caved in and it was obvious that death was imminent, Enjolras went up to Malain again, knife in hand. He fisted a hand in Malain’s blood drenched hair and pulled his head up.

“Was it worth it?” He asked, soft enough that only Malain and none of others could hear.

With his last bit of strength, Malain nodded.

Enjolras released his hold on Malain’s hair and yanked Malain’s underpants down. In one swift movement, Enjolras pressed the blade to Malain’s groin and pushed in, carving out Malain’s member.

Moments later, Malain was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally, right?
> 
> next update will come hella sooner, i promise you this.
> 
> Also everyone go read Ill-Famed and Suspected go read right now it's so good ahhhh
> 
> Chapter title from I Have To Go Return Some Video Tapes by Breathe Carolina


	12. I Should've Killed You When I Had The Chance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey folks, long time no see...
> 
> please feel free to throw rotting food at me
> 
> i'm seriously so pissed at myself for not writing any fic for so long (any TISB readers here??? an update is coming soon, I PROMISE, I'M SO SORRY)
> 
> mentally, i was doing not so well, and now i'm a lot better, but i've had horrible writer's block for SO LONG ugh
> 
> and a month ago, i started my first relationship and so i've been busy with my boyfriend and yeah.
> 
> ok enough excuses, updates will no longer be months and months apart, for any of my fics. in fact, expect quite a few new things from me in the coming weeks.
> 
> read on my lovelies, those of you still here <3
> 
> ***WARNING***  
> as the new tag states, there is a sexual assault of a minor in this chapter. it's non-explicit however, especially in comparison to the previous chapters, but i thought i'd give a bit extra warning <3
> 
> ALSO: there is a severed head in this chapter

_“I’m still unsure of my role in this brilliant plan of yours. You seem to have everything nicely in place.” Montparnasse took a long swig from the half empty wine bottle in his hand._

_“Your task is simple,“ Enjolras replied. He withdrew a folded paper from inside his jacket. He opened it and spread it out on the table before them, revealing a map centering on the area around the Seine. “When you receive word from Gavroche, you’ll take a cart out of Paris, and into the Fontainebleau. You’ll find a clearing; it won’t be difficult, there’ll be a few lanterns hanging. There, you’ll see a large sack. You’re to load it into the cart, and reenter Paris without drawing attention to yourself, which I suspect will be effortless for you. Then you’ll go to the Seine, and here,” Enjolras jabbed the paper with his finger. “A place I assume you’re familiar with, you’ll dump the bag.” Enjolras leaned back in his seat. “And that’s all.”_

_Montparnasse stared at the map. He was, in fact, familiar with that particular drop off. Patron Minette had used it multiple times, specifically because of its hidden location. He licked his lips thoughtfully and glanced up at Enjolras. “May I inquire of something?”_

_Enjolras nodded._

_“What’s the man’s name?”_

_“I can’t divulge that.”_

_“Oh, come now,” Montparnasse said, exasperatedly, gently crossing his arms over his chest, so as not to wrinkle the fabric. “What if he is an associate of mine? I’ll not assist in the execution of a friend.”_

_“I can say with certainty that he’s not one of your known associates.” Enjolras conceded._

_“Not old Th_ _é_ _nardier, then?_

_“No.”_

_“Shame,” Montparnasse grinned. “I wouldn’t have minded losing him.”_  

\---

A few floating, flickering lights caught Montparnasse’s attention shortly after he entered the forest. As he approached the clearing, he could see a few lanterns hanging from tree branches, as well as some on the ground, making the light hanging from the cart unnecessary. Against a sturdy tree trunk slumped a very large sack. Montparnasse stopped the cart close to the tree, and hushed the snorting horse in front of him,

Montparnasse smoothed his clothing before getting down from the seat. He landed harder than he’d planned, and grimaced when he felt mud splash onto his trouser legs.

 _I know what I’m purchasing with those foolish students’ money_.

The young man unbuttoned his jacket, folded it neatly, and placed it on the cart’s seat. He then methodically rolled his shirtsleeves up, taking care to not wrinkle the fabric any more than necessary. He smoothed his clothes once more before looking up and approaching the bag.

There was less blood, much less blood, than he expected staining the cloth, but he didn’t ponder on it. His delicate fingers curled around the top and he slowly lifted it up, a sharp exhale escaping his lips as he struggled with the weight. He crossed the very short distance to the cart and ungracefully dumped the bag onto the wooden planks. He stepped back immediately, checking his clothes to make sure they hadn’t received any more damage. He grinned when he saw they hadn’t, and once again, ran his hands over them.

He glanced up at the misshapen sack lying in the back of the cart and a morbid curiosity overcame him. Who could’ve enraged this group of students so completely? He reached a slim hand out to open the bag—

A loud squeal from the front of the cart shocked him out of his daze. Montparnasse quickly calmed the horse down before climbing back into the cart. He slowly pulled his sleeves down, tugged his coat on, and quickly left the clearing.

That feeling still thrummed in his veins, though. 

\---

As expected, Montparnasse reentered the city with no trouble. He’d learned much from Claquesous in how to hide himself and use the darkness to his advantage, and he quickly came upon the hidden alcove along the Seine.

As he walked to the back of the cart, that insatiable curiosity poked at his mind again. He _had_ to know who this man used to be. With shaking, anxious hands, he tugged at the rope tied around the top, keeping the bag shut.

The lantern hanging from the front of the cart swung back and forth, casting an eerie, shifting light as Montparnasse slowly reached into the bag. His fingers touched what felt like hair, wet with something. He grimaced, pinched the hair between his thumb and forefinger, and slowly withdrew his hand.

The severed head, at first facing away from Montparnasse, rolled as the young man removed it, and when Montparnasse saw those dead, green eyes, he lurched back violently.

_It can’t--!_

Montparnasse’s breathing was ragged and panicked as he stepped forward again, to confirm that what he was seeing wasn’t his mind playing tricks on him.

The eyes were the only distinguishable feature left on the face; the rest of it was bloody, mutilated, and bruised. Montparnasse, however, only needed to see the man’s eyes to know that it was exactly who he thought it was.

_He’s dead._

Montparnasse backed away again, his hands coming up to tangle in his hair. His breath came in gasping heaves as he fought the nausea crashing over him.

 _He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead_  

\---

_A fifteen year old Montparnasse sauntered down the Paris streets, his chest puffed out, his shoulders back, the perfect picture of teenage arrogance. A week earlier, he’d committed his first crime._

_He’d been in Paris for a few months, after running away from his family home, a farm house that was far too small for eight people. Montparnasse was the fifth of six children, born to parents who should never have been such. His father was a farmer who drank more than he did anything else, and his mother had not the patience, nor the energy, nor the heart to care for her children._

_In a family that was poorer than dirt, food was scarce, and clothes were a luxury. By the time the leftovers and hand-me-downs reached Montparnasse, they were scraps and rags._

_Montparnasse had always known that he was destined for greater things._

_He’d dream of food, plates and plates of food, never-ending, all he could eat and more._

_And he’d dream of clothes._

_One day, when Montparnasse was around ten, a man of some considerable wealth had passed by the house, following the road into Paris. Montparnasse had watched, jaw dropped, staring at the man’s clothing, so different from his own. It was colorful, blue and purple and red and green and gold, and perfect, no holes or tears._

_For the first time, Montparnasse felt disgusted with his existence, with the dreary greys and browns that comprised his reality. He swore to himself that he wouldn’t always live like that. He knew he was better than that pitiful life._

_When he was fourteen, he ran away to Paris,_

_He scavenged and begged, finding food, money, shelter, wherever he could. He celebrated his fifteen birthday under a bridge on the Seine, with a loaf of stale bread and slightly less threadbare clothes. He survived like this for a few months, all the while studying the homes of certain rich families._

_On one of the streets he frequented lived a family, some nobility from Lyon or Nancy, or some other place Montparnasse had never been, and the boy had been watching them for quite some time. When he saw the entire household, servants included, enter carriages and leave, he knew the time had come._

_That night, he looted the home, taking jewels and money from a very poorly made safe._

_The next day, he walked into the shop of one of the best tailors in Paris. By the evening, Montparnasse was unrecognizable. His trousers were a light cream, his boots black, his waistcoat the richest purple Montparnasse had ever seen, and his coat was a lovely forest green._

_He strolled into the first caf_ _é_ _he saw, and quickly set about fulfilling his second dream, not even registering the eyes watching him from across the room._

\---

Montparnasse wiped the tears from his eyes and spat, clearing his mouth of the taste of sick. He exhaled shakily, rubbing the palms of his hands on his thighs, trying to calm himself down. After a few moments, he pushed himself to his feet.

He dusted off and readjusted his clothes, and ran a trembling hand through his hair in an attempt to smooth it. He swallowed hard, refusing to let any more tears fall. He steeled himself, and walked up to the cart once more.

Montparnasse’s fingers gripped the head of hair, and he turned it so that it faced him again. He spat, over and over, on the grotesque face before him, until he couldn’t gather any more saliva.

He shoved the head back into the bag and retied the rope around the top. He dragged the sack all the way to the riverbank, and when he reached the water, he grinned as he threw in the corpse.

“May the fishes devour even your bones,” he whispered, watching the sack sink and drift down the river and out of view. “And may they choke on the rot deep inside you. 

\---

Montparnasse walked back to his rooms slowly, enjoying the brisk night air. The stars seemed brighter now, and he felt invincible.

The evening’s surprises weren’t yet finished, however. When Montparnasse was in his bedchamber, stripping off his filthy clothes, he discovered something.

What he had felt splash onto his trousers legs earlier was not mud, as he’d assumed.

It was blood. 

\---

_It all happened so fast._

_Montparnasse had been eating, feasting, really, on oysters and wine and cheese, things he’d never even seen before him in his life, when a man approached his table._

_“Would you mind terribly if I took this seat?”_

_Montparnasse, mouth full, shook his head and gestured for the man to sit._

_The first thing Montparnasse noticed about the man was his eyes. They were alluring, but at the same time, gave Montparnasse an uneasy feeling._

_But, of course, a fifteen year old boy isn’t going to pay too much attention to a mere ‘uneasy feeling’._

_Montparnasse swallowed his mouthful and introduced himself. “What’s your name?”_

_“Malain,” the man replied, his lips curling into a smirk. “You’ve quite the appetite, haven’t you?"_

_Montparnasse flushed. “I suppose. It’s delicious, best thing I’ve eaten.”_

_They kept talking, and Montparnasse must’ve kept drinking because at some point, things got blurry and chopped, bits and pieces of memory_

_Montparnasse standing, stumbling_

_Malain wrapping an arm around him_

_Darkness, night, an alley_

_Brick against Montparnasse’s back_

_Ripping_

_“No, no, those are my new clothes!”_

_“Shut up, boy.”_

_Montparnasse’s face pushed into the wall_

_"Wha—what are you--? Stop!”_

_“I said shut up, boy!”_

_“Stop, stop!”_

\---

Montparnasse closed his eyes and dropped the pair of trousers. He tried to reassure himself that it was over now; he had nothing to fear any longer.

_I should’ve killed him myself_

He scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. He would have to speak with the students soon, not to accept payment, after this, he’d rather pay them.

No, if the students wanted Malain dead, it was likely because one of them was one of his victims, and Montparnasse wanted to speak to him.

As he crawled into bed, Montparnasse hoped that his sleep would finally be peaceful.

 

\---

_“Babet! Babet, come here!”_

_“What is it?”_

_“Boy, are you hurt? Do you need help?”_

_The voices were muffled but Montparnasse could understand the words._

_“Please help…”_

_“’Sous, what’s this?”_

_“He’s bleeding and he’s been sick, Babet, we need to help him.”_

_“Are you acquainted? Or is he just some stray?”_

_“Does it matter?! Help me carry him; I won’t leave him here to die.”_

_Montparnasse opened his eyes slowly, trying to see the men helping him. He was too weak to lift his head, and so as they carried him away, before he lost consciousness again, all Montparnasse could see were his torn clothes and the huge puddle of vomit that was once the most amazing food._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, so that's the twist i've been sitting on pretty much since i first started writing this.
> 
> poor bb monty ='(
> 
> Chapter title from Get Off Easy by Breathe Carolina

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Ill-famed and Suspected](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1383196) by [Elspethdixon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elspethdixon/pseuds/Elspethdixon), [Seanchai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seanchai/pseuds/Seanchai)




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